Throwaway Card
by Killing Joke
Summary: A series of rogue explosions in Gotham has led Batman to the usual suspect, who has once again exploited Arkham's revolving door policy. But something is going very wrong for the Clown Prince.
1. Chapter 1

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: The following chapters of this fanfic are currently in pieces all over my bedroom floor. This has no real relevance – I'm just apologizing for any disjointedness. _

**Gotham General Hospital, 2.53 a.m.**

"One more question….can you keep a secret?"

_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

Hot damn _yeah_ I can keep a secret.

Batman. Holy shit. Batman. And I thought I'd pulled a raw deal with the graveyard shift this week. All my life I've lived here, and I've only ever seen him once. From a distance. Well, I thought I saw him, but to be honest I wasn't too sober at the time…but this time he's right in front of me, with the cape and the belt and the little pointy ears and everything, asking me that question. I always said that if I ever met him I'd have to make fun of his outfit - but somehow with him right here, it doesn't seem like such an amusing fashion statement any more. You wanna know the weirdest thing? On him, it just looks _practical_.

So I tell him yes, sure, I can keep any secret, hey, I'm good at 'em, and he gets me to hold the fire door open while he goes back to his car (Batmobile, Ari, Batmobile) and when he comes back he's carrying…

Jesus fucking Christ, it's never the goddamn Joker.

"No-one must know he's here," Batman says as he brushes past me with the freakin' _Joker _slung over his arms like wet washing. "That's the secret. Can you keep that secret, Doctor Kelly?"

I nod, unable to speak. And just what the hell would I have said if I could? "No, Mr Batman, you're not bringing that guy in here, cos he's the single baddest motherfucker in the valley and just the sight of him scares me half to death?"

Besides, my medical instincts are kicking me in the back: it may be the Joker but he looks just about as sick as I've ever seen anyone look, and I took an oath. I have to examine him.

So I lead the Batman to one of our private wards, one of the poky little nasty ones near the morgue that the fat cats won't pay for, and he lays the Joker down on the bed. The mad guy is barely conscious. He's shivering like he's caught in a Canada winter, and his eyes as they roll open and stare past me are heavily bloodshot. I can't help it - I stare at him for ages, because although you see these faces on TV and in the papers you'd never believe it until you're this close, this close…

I guess that anyone apart from Batman who gets this close to the Joker usually doesn't live to remember the sight. He's not as monstrous as I expected him to be. Weird. The pictures you usually see of him, he's laughing. Most folks, they laugh, their faces and eyes light up, they seem more natural. This guy? His laughter makes him hideous.

Well, he's sure not laughing now.

The green hair is amazing, it's like Astroturf. Nothing natural about that tint. Behind the threading of red veins his eyes are the same, virulent and synthetic. I peer into those eyes with the penlight, trying to concentrate on the pupil reaction. Damn. The contact lens people would kill to make lenses this colour.

I snap out of it and throw myself into routine. Blood pressure, temperature, pulse. All wrong. All very wrong. He's sweating and clammy and you could cook eggs on his forehead.

I draw off a blood sample because I think this is really going to need a closer look. My first instinct was influenza with complications, like the kind we see in old people in midwinter when their houses aren't heated well and they've been living on cold tinned beans for a month: but the more I examine him the more I think it's something more sinister. The intense white of his skin seems almost translucent as I tap the bend of his elbow to draw up the vein - although his blood is hugely dark and red in contrast, just like anyone else's.

"Has he vomited?" I ask Batman. The cowled head shakes once: no. "How long has he been like this?"

"About two hours now."

Wow. That's ridiculously fast incubation.

"And he was fine before that?"

A brief tilt of the mask. "If you count unconscious as fine."

It's just possible that was what passes for humour in Batman's estimation. I check the various bathed and bandaged wounds on the Joker's face and arms. They've been well treated.

"His arm is fractured, did you know that?"

Another nod from the cowl.

"Doctor Kelly. What is wrong with him?"

Well, there's the sixty-four thousand dollar question. God, I hate this moment. Even when it's a mass murderer rather than someone's saintly gran'ma, it still doesn't make it easier to admit that -

"I don't know…I want to run some tests on his blood."

There is a pause. The masked man opposite me seems to have become a statue, a waxwork. I struggle to fill the suddenly gaping silence. Jeez, they could rent him out to AA meetings. You'd find yourself confessing to being a three-litre vodka drinker just to fill that oppressive, cloying void of sound…

"I think…y'know, maybe…he's been poisoned…drugged…"

The needle mark on the guy's white neck hadn't escaped me, but I'd kinda assumed he'd picked that up while trying to escape or something. I press my fingers into the hollow of his distorted, angular jaw line, checking the lymph glands. He moans. His neck is obviously sensitive, although I'm drawing a negative on inflamed glands. Aware of the cowl's scrutiny on my back, I turn away quickly and take the opportunity to personally whip the blood down to the lab. To be honest? I'm really glad to be out of there, even if it's only for a moment. When the door closes behind me I'm almost happy to believe that none of this is real. I spend almost a minute just leant against the wall outside the room, as the body bags rattle past on their gurneys to the morgue, trying to recover my sense of reality.

The boys in the lab aren't best pleased to be dragged away from their game of crib: the witching hours are kind of their own, usually. Drive-by shootings, muggings, and the occasional alcohol poisoning doesn't tend to tax the bloodwork guys. Still, after I swear at them a little to get them moving, they assure me they'll get on it immediately.

When I get back, Batman is trying to get my patient to drink a cup of water from the cooler, and he's not having a lot of luck.

"Look," I say, "he's dehydrated: gimmie a moment and I'll hook him up."

The Joker is conscious enough to watch me as I fix the needle into one of the veins on his chalk-white hand. He doesn't flinch, doesn't fight. I get the impression he's used to this: hell, I'm almost surprised there isn't a socket in his vein to fix the drip into. He blinks as the needle slides in. His sharp, distorted face is drawn with weariness.

"Don't move," I tell him, and because it's what I tell everybody, I add, "you're gonna feel better in a bit."

To my amazement the scarlet lips draw back from the expanse of vicious teeth and he gives me a pale shadow of that infamous grin that's been splashed across the papers during the last fortnight, since he's been loose from Arkham.

And I recoil from him, feeling suddenly quite cold: I'd managed to sink myself in routine and being baffled by his symptoms so much that I'd almost forgotten who I was dealing with.

The Batman's shadowed, intent eyes are on me again, and I know he knows what I'm thinking. I back away from the man on the bed, very slowly, and feel Batman's attention shift again to my patient.

"Joker," he says, quietly and calmly. "Over here."

The Joker's head lolls to look at him.

"Who did this to you?" Batman pursues.

There is a long pause, during which I start to get really worried. Then the Joker coughs harshly, breath rattling in his throat.

"Here it is, Batsy…your starter for ten…with a side order of who-the-hell-knows…" he croaks, eyes watering and rictus grin twitching.

I wonder if I'm the only one who can see how much of an effort it's cost him just to get those words out. I grab my spatula, tilt his head back, and press down his tongue. He gags. There's a lot of old scarring in his throat: but horrendous though that is, it isn't the issue right now. In the short time he's been lying here, the soft tissue in his throat has swollen up and become inflamed. Ouch. Whatever this thing is, it believes in striking hard and fast.

I release my grip on him and he sinks back against the pillows. When I turn around, the Batman is already halfway out of the room, cape catching lightly and silently on the end of the bed. My heart leaps in horror. If this room had been a little bigger or had a window or something, I bet I wouldn't even have seen him leave, I'd've just turned around and bam! he'd've been gone. "Hey, wait! No way are you leaving this guy here…!"

The eyes behind the mask fix me steadily. "I have something I have to see to. How long before the results of the blood test are back?"

I shrug, darting a nervous glance at the bed. "About a half hour…maybe less…look, please…"

I'm ashamed of the pitiful fright in my voice. But Christ, I can't be left here with Public Enemy Number One in my wards. I'm just a kinda tired, kinda strung out on caffeine, run-of-the-mill overworked medic. The Batman shifts his weight, and in that tiny movement I can feel that whatever it is he's going to do is far more vital than anything I could imagine. I save maybe fifty lives in a week: he has the look in his eyes of someone who sees saving fifty lives as a drop in the ocean. He saves cities.

"Doctor," he asks, still calm, still quiet. "is it your opinion that this man is likely to recover sufficiently to be any threat within the next half an hour?"

I give my secret patient a brief, unhappy glance.

"I guess…I guess not."

The cowl nods back at me, and I find a pair of heavy, modern-looking restraint cuffs being slung into my hands.

"He will not be very happy if he starts feeling better," is Batman's parting shot as he turns and sweeps from the room.

And I'm left alone with the handcuffs, the Joker, and a very real sense of foreboding…so I do the only thing I can do. I cuff the Joker's free hand to the bed frame, leaving the one with the IV attached hanging limply over the covers, and flatten myself against the far wall to watch him.


	2. Chapter 2

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 2**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: Thank you so much to all of you who read and reviewed the first chapter. I honestly didn't expect anyone to do that! Here's some more for you, if you're still reading. _

**Wayne Manor, 12.31 a.m., two hours earlier. **

"He's not responsible."

In the expensive surroundings of Bruce Wayne's study, Alfred Pennyworth gave an expressive lift of one eyebrow - his most demonstrative look of surprise. After this many years, being surprised at anything his employer did was proving a struggle.

"Really sir? A homicidal maniac with an affinity for explosives escapes, several ugly but none-the-less important city buildings blow up mysteriously, and yet you are managing to entertain doubts? I am impressed by your ability to find puzzles where there are only answers."

Bruce, still clad in his dark costume but just in the act of removing his mask, gave his friend a wry look.

"Alfred, you and I have encountered the Joker on many occasions before tonight…"

"Indeed," sniffed Alfred, taking the cast off bat-cowl between thumb and forefinger, "that gentleman sometimes seems so ubiquitous it's a wonder he isn't Mayor."

Bruce sat down in his overstuffed leather chair and tilted his head, thoughtfully.

"All the times I've fought with him, and this time he gets caught in his own trap? It doesn't feel right. The man's like a cat - nine lives and always lands on his feet…"

"And running," put in Alfred, pouring some coffee calmly. "Surely, sir, there must have been times when he has ended up a victim of his own schemes? One cannot play with matches without getting one's fingers burnt occasionally."

Bruce took the coffee gratefully, and said: "Occasionally. But on those occasions it's when I've been in time to interfere, make him slip up, make him miscalculate. But this time…this time…I turn up in the aftermath and yet he was there, conveniently right in the frame, almost as if he was waiting for me."

"Is it possible to be waiting while unconscious?" Alfred wondered out loud, clearing the cream jug and the sugar bowl out of the way. Bruce Wayne gave his tight, dry smile.

"Sometimes, Alfred, I think that you're wasted on me. You should be doling out punch lines on some late-night chat show."

"Heavens," murmured Alfred, "and leave you to do your own cooking? I'd be charged with neglect. Poisoning, even."

The doors of the study slid closed smoothly behind Alfred and his tray: Bruce took a swallow or so of coffee, thoughtfully. It hadn't felt right. None of it had felt right. Nothing concrete, nothing that he could write down or quantify. Stupid…you can't identify a perpetrator from the pattern of flames gouting from the windows of a burning building…but somehow even that had been wrong.

He ran a hand through his hair and could smell the clinging acrid smoke. Even through the cowl it had seeped in. Upholstery burning…synthetics. He stripped the heavy gauntlets from his hands and regarded the stripes of ash and dirt on the black. He had…

**Gotham City, Amway Pharmaceutical Despatch, 11.13 p.m.**

…put his gauntlets under the flaming pallet and heaved.

The heat wasn't intense enough to penetrate the tough material, but the smoke - the smoke was overwhelming. Two more minutes. Two. Then he'd have time to grab the filter-mask from his belt and slide it over his face.

_Don't think. Move. This woman is going to die. _

He scooped her limp, overweight body up and put his head down into the smoke cloud.

_What am I doing? I'm becoming a glorified fireman. I should have prevented this…when did it become purely about the clearing up and not about stopping things like this happening in the first place?_

The street outside the building was the normal chaos of emergency services, panic, and rubble. Above even the wail of sirens, Batman heard rafters crashing behind him as he swept from the fire exit.

_Another trip, one more, and then even I can't go back in there again. The roof's about to go. _

He dumped the woman in the care of a pair of surprised-looking paramedics, and was back at the fire exit within moments, fixing the mask over his mouth and nose.

"Batman! Batman!"

Shouting. Always someone.

"Batman, is there anyone else alive in there? Batman -"

The shouts died away behind him as he dove into the warehouse space. The bomb had detonated two floors up: effectively cutting off any escape for the office workers whose desks were above the main storage halls. A good place to set a bomb, if you were aiming for maximum body count. In the smoke, Batman turned away from the burning stacks of pallets, crates and lorries: he headed for the warehouse supervisor's office in the corner. Above him, the ceiling was cracked and bulging alarmingly, and tiny sparks interlaced with dribbles of molten metal fell around the ears of his cowl. The thousand sounds of cement, metal and wood under severe strain roared in his hearing, along with the occasional hissing rush as flame gouted through more and more nearby doors.

It was while he was in the act of turning away from one such surge of fire that he saw it. A huddled, untidy sprawl of long limbs, clad in a suit that was already starting to smoulder cheerfully as sparks and debris from above littered it.

Batman reached the fallen figure in two long strides, bent, lifted and looked -

…_Joker. It's you. _

He actually paused: a figure in sleek black outlined in destruction and flame, gazing down in a moment's mute confusion at the man he was rescuing. Above, a support gantry popped free of its melting hinges. Batman looked up: and by the time the tangled metal gantry plummeted to the factory floor ten seconds later, he was already gone.

**Wayne Manor, 12.46 a.m. **

Bruce ran a hand across his brow and tried to marshal his thoughts and unease into coherent form.

It had been pure co-incidence that the fire exit he'd tried to leave through had become impassable: luck, perhaps, that the next exit he found, a rapidly blackening window, had let out into a tiny dead-end alley which no police or curious spectators had managed to reach.

He had stood there in the dank shadows, the Joker in his arms, feeling the fine spray of water on his lower face as the fire engines sluiced torrents over the burning building, and it had been then that the sense of wrongness had started to niggle at him.

He had checked his enemy's condition out of sheer habit. Unconscious, but breathing well despite having most likely a lungful of smoke. Covered in ash. The purple silk suit was ruined. He'd gone through the pockets, checking for weapons, because even unconscious the madman couldn't be trusted: and had found…

**Batcave, 12.11 a.m. **

"No cards. No gun. No acid."

Alfred watched impassively as his master paced back and forth in the cavernous dark of the cave.

"No loose change, no candy. Nothing."

"Maybe he got dressed in a hurry this morning," Alfred offered, "too busy thinking about plastic explosive to be worried about where he left his keys?"

"I don't trust this, Alfred."

The butler's eyes drifted to the bench which Bruce himself had often lain on, patiently grimacing as Alfred extracted bullets or stitched wounds. The Joker looked out-of-place slung across it.

"To be honest, sir, he _is_ mad. Does there have to be a reason for what he does? Possibly he simply hasn't had time to restock his arsenal since his escape."

The cloaked figure paused in his pacing. "There's always a reason. Even if it's as simple as 'because he wants to', there's always a reason. And he likes to let me know it's him so that I can try and figure out what that reason is."

He shook his head. Above in the vaulted shadows a few of his namesakes remained, leather wings fluttering.

"No calling card. No gag gift. Nothing at all…just the explosion…and himself caught up in it." He resumed pacing as Alfred bent dispassionately over the madman with a damp cloth and some surgical spirit. "Alfred."

"Sir?"

"Patch him up. And do it well."

Alfred allowed himself a tiny exhalation of irritation. His skills in first aid, rudimentary for years, had recently been increasing to field-surgeon standard. "Surely they will be able to do better at Arkham than I can here?"

A brief moment of intense, unhappy quiet.

"You _will _be taking him to Arkham, I assume, sir?"

"Never assume, Alfred," came the reply after a moment. "It's what people want you to do…it's what someone wants _me _to do. Patch him up."

The Batman swept towards his computer console and hunched over it, a shadow among shadows.

"A 'Please' wouldn't go amiss," Alfred murmured as he moved the Joker's arm to try and get at a rather gory-looking scrape. The arm flopped loosely, and made a sickening grating noise: bone against bone. Alfred's expression tightened delicately in disgust, and when he looked up Batman was looking back at him, his eyes pinpoints of light hidden in the cowl.

"Please," he said.

"Very well, sir."

**Wayne Manor, 12.53 a.m.**

Bruce Wayne chewed on his lower lip a little, thinking. The map of explosion sites targeted around Gotham had provided no logical or useful clues: it seemed as random as a scattering of birdseed, with no one target or victim identifiable. In many ways, a typical Joker-case. Seemingly random, until you happened to glimpse that one tiny lynchpin upon which the whole crazy logic of the events turned.

_And usually that glimpse…he gives it to me himself. He wants me to follow him. It's part of the fun for him - no, scratch that, it IS the fun for him. He doesn't play unless I'm on the opposing team. _

_So what kind of a clue is this, Joker? Delivering yourself to me, senseless and wounded? Where's the fun in that for you?_

"There isn't any," he said out loud, and lay back in his chair, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose. The coffee hadn't helped. Weariness dogged him insistently - after four nights without more than snatches of sleep, even he had to admit that he was flagging. Perhaps he could manage an hour, a half-hour.

"Sir?"

The doors opened to admit Alfred. The butler's normal unflappable demeanour was not in place: his face was slightly flushed with effort, and he seemed, for him at least, almost flustered.

"Alfred. What happened? Is he awake?"

Alfred composed himself, drew a long breath. "No, sir, he assuredly is not. But I think we have a rather serious problem…"


	3. Chapter 3

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 3**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Again, thank you so very much for all your kind reviews. You've made a simple psycho very happy. Proper review responses are at the end of this chapter. _

Over the streets of Gotham, as a low, yellow moon was gradually hidden by scudding, dirty clouds, the storm that had been threatening for days began to break. It had been hot: the streets had sweltered in a clinging humidity that had done nothing to improve the general miserable mood of the city's populace.

Now, above the drab hulking skyscrapers and gothic turrets, the night sky roiled as the clouds drew in steadily. A fine drizzle began to fall. It fell into the still-warm ashes of the bomb sites, dampening them. Little tendrils of smoke still wavered upwards from the depths of the debris, and the police cordons fluttered in the rising wind.

The moon glowed softly in the darkness: and with abrupt brightness, a silvery disc of light to rival it sprang into life above the lumpen city skyline.

Wounded, burnt in a dozen places, Gotham City was calling out to its protector.

Batman regarded the Joker with nothing but pure suspicion.

"His wounds are all dressed, sir," Alfred had said as they walked down the stairs together, "although I'm not confident about his arm. It's broken, and after last month I don't have the resources to set it. However, I have some concerns…"

The cowl tilted down to look closer. A black gauntlet reached out and took hold of the madman's chin, turned his head to one side. There it was. Alfred, as was quite often the case, had been correct. A small pinprick, direct into one of the blue veins standing out clear from the dead white throat. Almost invisible.

Batman ran his gloved fingers over the tiny mark, frowning. He was almost certain that at Arkham they had long given up administering anti-psychotic drugs to the Joker: the drugs tended to have little or no effect aside from occasionally giving him a rash. And quite apart from anything else, it had been a whole thirteen days since the asylum had admitted losing their most notorious patient for what seemed like the three hundredth time. Any hypodermic marks from his incarceration there would have been long gone by now.

_So…a fresh injection. Who would have got close enough to catch Gotham's crazy tiger by his tail? Arkham inmates tend to fight like tomcats over trash - more than likely it was one of Joker's former cellmates organised this…_

Behind the hero and his fallen enemy, the cave's many screens were alight. Three were monitoring news channels: a further two smaller ones scrolled through dozens of case histories: the Joker's _curriculum vitae _of crime. Batman's attention, caught by a few hurried shots of the flaming warehouse, was drawn to the third large screen. He flicked the sound on.

"…in the city's most vulnerable districts. The ninth of eleven explosions tonight in Gotham City completely destroyed the Amway Storage Facility. The facility had recently taken delivery of a shipment of vaccination serum, used to prevent influenza in the elderly and infirm. Sixteen night shift workers were believed to be present in the building at the time."

There was a blurry, ten-second piece of footage showing Batman carrying the overweight woman from the building.

"Gotham's own mystery, the now-famous superhero Batman, was witnessed at no fewer than six of the explosion sites, each time aiding the rescue services. The explosions occurred in a series of twenty-minute intervals across the city and no more are expected tonight.

"Many sources are laying the blame for these events entirely at the feet of the super villain known as the Joker, whose escape from Arkham Asylum over a fortnight ago continues to baffle police. The Joker's whereabouts are currently unknown. Police would like to stress that there is currently no need for panic, but that the Joker should be considered armed and extremely dangerous, and should not be approached under any circumstances. Members of the public concerned for the welfare of friends or relatives involved in these events should call the following number: 555-90..."

Batman pressed the mute button and approached the Joker again.

"Sir, I can't stress enough how unwise I believe keeping him here may be," Alfred had added as they had approached the hidden entrance to the cave. "Quite apart from all my original concerns, his condition is…deteriorating…and there is little I can do under such circumstances. If I may be so bold, a high fever is not likely to improve his mental state. If you want to question him, you may have to do it now. Otherwise, I would recommend hospital."

The Batman examined his enemy with a less-than-gentle but professional manner. Still senseless and lolling untidily across the medical couch, the Joker looked like a broken child's puppet. The ice-white skin was hot to the touch. Occasionally, like a dreaming animal, he twitched and his long fingers grasped at the air.

Alfred had been quite correct. Something more serious than injury here.

"Joker."

A series of brisk shakes to the madman's shoulders failed to rouse anything more than a growl of pained breath through a bared stretch of teeth.

"Joker..."

_He's usually unnaturally fast at recovering, even from a beating like this. _

Batman let go of the soot-blackened lapels and stared forward into space, the flickering images on the screens dancing in the periphery of his vision.

…drugged somehow, then.

_I was right. Instinct is a marvellous thing. Someone wanted me to believe you were the culprit so badly that they put you right in my path, right where I couldn't miss you. You didn't go willingly, either, did you…put up a fight…?_

A few, familiar pictures caught his attention as they flickered past on the screens. Another one of the explosion scenes, sparks showering down around the central doors and firemen manhandling the hoses into position. Ambulances clustered outside like piglets around the sow. Steady flow of stretchers, faces covered with oxygen masks, or more often covered with a blanket - too many casualties. Too many.

Beneath his mask, Batman's expression tightened into fury. He once again flicked on the sound.

"….clinic of Dr Leslie Thompkins, which was evacuated rapidly thanks to stringent safety procedures put in place by Dr Thompkins herself. Despite the best efforts of both emergency personnel and clinic staff, there were thirteen fatalities. At Gotham Marina -"

The sound was extinguished abruptly.

_Leslie._

Behind Batman, there was a scuffed footstep on the steps of the cave: Alfred, who had originally remained above in the manor, had followed his master down. Batman turned. The butler's perturbed expression was making him look even older than his not inconsiderable years and his usual careful poise was stiff with concern.

The rain had begun in earnest shortly after the Bat-signal was lit. Huge, fat raindrops rattled on the halogen lamp's massive metal frame and the rooftop was awash. Two of Gotham's cops, swathed in oilskin but still soaked and miserable, stood on guard behind the blinding glare of the signal. The sky over the city was almost black, the clouds providing a solid background for the stylised bat. The ugly yellow glow of the streetlights played poorly on the cloud cover, and, due to the explosions, the traffic was jammed into the soaking streets at a standstill. Gotham City was never still, even in the slow hours before dawn. And from her small, unremarkable apartment somewhere on the lower west side, Catwoman slid out of her window, perched on the rain-darkened sill for a moment, then leapt off into the night.

"I took the liberty of making a few preliminary investigations when I saw the report," was Alfred's slightly hushed response as Batman, cowl firmly in place, turned back to the cave computer. "The infirmary was one of the last places to be hit. Doctor Leslie was taken to Gotham General along with six of her staff and patients, and the hospital were less than forthcoming as to her condition. Fear of the press, I suppose.."

"She's alive."

The tone was uncompromising. Despite his own worry, Alfred knew better than to argue with it. He moved instead to the medical couch, where the Joker was starting to shiver and curl up around himself. "Did you give him the broad-spectrum shot?"

"Yes."

Batman was intent on a screen readout and did not look up. Alfred shook his head, his fingers pressed to the Joker's throat, checking the pulse. "With all due respect, sir, it does not appear to be having the desired effect."

Staring at the text on the screen, Batman found that he could neither concentrate fully upon it nor what Alfred was trying to say to him. His world had contracted, as it always did, around the pain of his city and the more personal pain of knowing that people he knew, people he cared about, had yet again been caught up in the storm.

_Supervillains…_

The newspapers loved to crow about superheroes and their adversaries. It made good copy, and "super" was a great buzz-word. As far as Batman was concerned, there was nothing super about himself, and certainly nothing heroic. And as for the parade of psychotics and petty criminals hiding behind the relative safety of outlandish names or ridiculous gimmicks - super? No.

There was a danger in dismissing them, though, as pathetic fools or lone crazies: especially in the case of the Joker, who underneath the giggling frippery of his appearance had a mind like a steel trap and a lack of respect for other people's lives that bordered on the obscene.

_There is a thin line between the real Gotham and my Gotham: the Gotham that everyone lives in and eats bagels in and goes to parties in and the Gotham that has murder by riddles and acids and the rain never stops falling…_

_In that thin line I stand, and Joker stands with me, as do all the others. Occasionally we put a foot wrong, by accident or design, and then the two Gothams merge for a while - always to ill effect. _

Batman found himself thinking in that passing moment as images of burning buildings flickered before his eyes: wondering if ordinary people treated him like they treated plumbing or electricity. They had no concept of what life would be like without him, not even considering it from day to day. But as soon as that wrong step was taken and the Batman's Gotham infringed upon the day-to-day Gotham…

_They have no right. I have no right. Ordinary people should have no involvement with us._

It was too dangerous. And if Batman's suspicions were correct and these explosions were the latest opening sally in another super villain feud, ordinary people all over Gotham were at risk until he finished this.

"Sir?"

"Alfred."

Batman turned away from the screens. "Someone wants me to believe the Joker was responsible for this. I want to perpetuate that belief."

He took two strides toward the medical couch and stared down at the curled ball of sooty purple, one hand raised to his chin in thought.

_Supervillain…_

"I have to make sure that Gotham believes the Joker is in the hospital wing at Arkham by dawn. It's what the city expects me to do with him. It's what I always do."

Alfred coughed gently.

"I surmise that you are not, in fact, going to take him there?"

The gleam of Batman's eyes narrowed slightly, his lips twitching in a humourless non-expression.

"Feel free to surmise. In the meantime, please fetch me the camera from the workbench."

Alfred, placing the camera into the gauntleted hand, said: "Holiday snaps, sir?"

"Gordon wants to talk to me."

The flash of the camera lit up the vaulted ceiling of the cave. Bats chattered and fluttered in annoyance.

"I want to show him what he wants to see."

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_**SchattenShadow **- Hi there, thanks for reading! Yes, more chapters on the way as fast as I can write, edit, and upload._

_**Noiseforyoureyes **- your compliments on my work are very kind. And yeah...I must admit I hate cliffhangers myself, but that one kinda snuck up on me. _

_**Robster72 **- Hee, I think I've had the most fun so far in writing Alfred. He gets some great chances for dry comeback lines. As for what happened to Joker - well,all I think I can say for sure is he's not going to be as cheerful as usual for a while..._

_**Eatone** - Yeah, I know. I'm an evil cliffhanger-merchant. :grin: I'm really glad you like the story. _

_**True Believer** - Thankyou for your kind words! I think characterisation is my greatest worry with writing fanfic (that and canon). Joker may actually be easier to write for while he's unconscious!_

_**Masline -** Hi there. I'm glad you think the story is shaping up well - hope you enjoyed chapter 3. _

_**Nightmare1 **- "It is almost as brilliant as actually reading one of the comics.". That review from you, right there? That made my day when I read it. Thankyou somuch. _

_**Chewie-2006** - Thankyou, I'll do my best!_

_**Hades' Phoenix** - (great penname...!) Thankyou for such a detailed and extremely encouraging review! Like I said earlier, my great fear is dropping people OOC by accident...it's fine for some fics but I wanted to keep it as solid as I could for this one. And no, I'm not a slash-writer by trade. _

_**SpiderFreak **- :KJ does a little dance: Thankyou! And as for what's up with Joker, well, your guesses are good. He's really going through the mill. I'm so mean to him._


	4. Chapter 4

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 4**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: Once again, thank you to everyone who's read my little story so far and let me know what they think! Proper review responses at the end of the chapter as before._

**Rooftop of Gotham Police Headquarters, 1.57 am.**

"Uh, Commissioner?"

"I know what you're going to say, Wilkins," came the reply from under the sodden arch of an umbrella. The younger man cringed, very slightly. "It's what someone always says at roughly this point." Gordon's tones were weary and flat as he mimicked the voice of every young rookie in the precinct at some point. "'Shall we turn it off, Commissioner? He ain't coming. Hell, maybe he ain't even a real guy.'"

Feeling he was being patronised, Wilkins wisely kept his mouth shut. Gordon tilted his umbrella so that the excess water sluiced off to one side. "And then I'm just heading home in the darkness on Third, and suddenly a voice from my back seat says to me, 'Gordon,' it says, and I nearly brain myself on the car roof. Again. So no, Wilkins, we are not turning the signal off."

The young officer, somewhat at a loss in the face of his superior's world-weary sarcasm, did the only thing he could think of and saluted smartly, rainwater gleaming on his bad weather overcoat. Gordon sighed.

_Why me?_

Sometimes, in the early days, he had wondered why it was that the Batman had chosen him to come to, him to trust: he had felt special, a Chosen One, and his liaisons with Gotham's own Dark Knight had given him great status amongst his peers. But now…now…Gordon reached up a hand and wiped his brow. His hand came away slick with grime - soot and sweat from the last crime scene. He regarded the charcoal smear for some moments, unhappily.

_Back then I believed that all this could be washed away, made clean._

He looked up from under the umbrella at the roiling sky.

_And now we seem to have all the rain in the world and yet it only makes things dirtier._

"Go indoors and help the boys downstairs with their reports," he said to the luckless Wilkins after another few minutes. It didn't serve any purpose to continue making the lad feel useless, and it was getting wetter by the minute. Gordon almost smiled to see the relief on the boy's face as he turned and headed for the square of warm yellow light that was the roof door.

_Am I getting older or are my officers getting younger? _

"I thought you'd prefer to talk to me alone," he said to the dripping darkness after a moment. Rain splashed loudly from the gutters, poured in torrents down the side of the building.

"I have something for you."

Gordon paused to congratulate himself silently: once, for being right, and twice, for not jumping like a startled gazelle when the voice spoke to him out of the driving rain.

"Glad to hear it," he said, his eyes flicking to try and locate the familiar looming shadow in the darkness. "I assume we're talking about the Joker here? It fits his MO, and he's been out for over a fortnight with no hint of trouble. Knew it was too good to last."

A zipped plastic wallet landed abruptly in the puddles at his feet. Gordon crouched down and examined it, wiping water from its slick waterproof surface.

The face of the Joker leered out of the photograph inside at him. Gordon repressed the lurch of revulsion and dread that the madman's image always provoked in him and looked more closely.

_No. Wait._

The mad eyes were squeezed shut: the paper-white skin bruised across the high cheekbones and the teeth were clenched fiercely.

_He's not laughing. He's not even grinning. He looks -_

"What happened to him?"

Another pause from the darkness.

"I found him at the Amway warehouse," came the reply. "He wasn't quick enough to escape his own explosives."

Gordon let out a long breath, realising in that moment how tense he had been.

"You have him, then?"

"I have him."

The commissioner gazed for a long moment at the photograph, watching the raindrops spatter on the plastic cover.

"There are more pictures inside. Use them. The city deserves to know that it doesn't need to be afraid anymore."

There was a slight edge to Batman's voice that Gordon neither recognised nor liked very much: but he nodded.

"I'll make sure every household gets to see these in their morning paper and knows who they have to thank for this lunatic's recapture."

"Thankyou."

Gordon waited. Over the years he had developed a fairly sophisticated sense for defining whether or not he still had company or not: it saved the embarrassment of having to stand around trying to have a conversation with an empty patch of shadow. The night simply didn't feel empty enough yet.

"Is there anything else?" he offered, when nothing was forthcoming after a minute or so. "I mean, I know I called you - but as you've already got the Joker in hand -"

"Make sure the press know that the Joker suffered heavy injuries as a result of his carelessness."

_There's that edge again. Almost,_ thought Gordon, _if I didn't know better, like anxiety. Or anger. Or even…deception. I'm a policeman, I know what deception sounds like…_

"I will. The more he suffers, the better the public feel. They'll also feel better knowing he's back in Arkham where he belongs…"

"He is in a coma. I would not be expecting him to wake up anytime soon." The response was so swift this time it almost felt like an interruption.

_Are you lying to me, old friend?_

"Is that all the information you can give me?" he pursued: but by that time the night had the empty feel of an abandoned theatre, with all the main players having taken their applause and left the stage clear.

_And me just an understudy,_ thought Gordon, as he walked towards the door, photographs in hand, already preparing his press conference in his mind._ Reading the lines I'm prompted to…_

**Gotham City, alleyway, 2.13 am**

A few blocks away from where the Bat-signal, no longer required, was being shut down, the sleek Batmobile was parked behind a row of green dumpsters. Rain slid from it as if it was oiled, with new rainfall almost seeming to part around it. Locked, Batman's car was as good as a fortress: behind sheets of heavy armour plating and bullet-proof army-grade tinted glass, the driver was not only invisible but extremely secure.

The Batmobile lay dormant like a basking shark in the quiet of the alley, until a sudden dull click sounded in the interior, and a small pair of lights flickered briefly in recognition as its owner drew near.

Batman dropped from the dripping fire escape above without a sound. His boots rippled the puddle he'd landed in without causing a splash, and he strode to the passenger side of the car first, without hesitation.

The Joker, delirious and limp, lay strapped into the seat. Normal seatbelts had been replaced with the same high-resistance restraint straps used in prisons and hospitals: designed to hold even the most determined patient or prisoner. Three straps enclosed the Joker's skinny chest, with four more binding his arms and legs. Batman had reluctantly left the madman's face and neck unrestrained. The Joker had developed an alarming tendancy to stop breathing for short periods during the last half hour or so, and any further pressure on his throat and face would have only made this worse.

_So if he gnaws his way out of that, I only have myself to blame,_ thought the Batman, bitterly. Lying to Gordon, even if it was in the service of the greater good, always made him feel jaded and old.

He turned away and threw himself into the driver's seat. The Batmobile glided out of the alley, scattering stray cats and a few loose cans in its wake, and swung off down the main drag towards Gotham General Hospital.

**Gotham General Hospital, 2.45 a.m. **

Pulling to a halt at the service entrance of the hospital, Batman took another look at his passenger. The Joker's breathing was loud and harsh in the almost silent interior of the Batmobile.

_I wish I could believe he was faking this…_

He approached the hospital by the almost unused east side, ducking behind an off-duty ambulance as a truck full of laundry trundled slowly by, and his eyes fell upon one of the fire exit doors, which was open. In the tiny spill of light from the emergency door, a thin, worried-looking man in doctor's blues was huddled out of the rain, smoking a cigarette. The plastic laminate of his ID gleamed a little from the pocket of his tunic.

Batman slipped closer. The doctor looked neither young nor old: his face had gone a few days without shaving properly and his black hair was starting to recede. His dark skin was dull with fatigue. He looked worn down, overstressed, and, most importantly, looked as if he could be easily persuaded.

"Doctor," Batman said, from out of the shadows. The man started, dropping his cigarette in shock and cursing as he did so. "What is your name?"

The doctor's dark eyes went huge as he picked out the silhouette of pointed ears and cape in the shadows just beyond the building. He made an incoherent sound, then stammered:

"Ari Kelly…"

"One more question, Dr Kelly," said Batman, taking a single step forward into the light. "Can you keep a secret?"

**Gotham General Hospital, 3.47 a.m.**

_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

Oh shit. Oh, god help me. He's awake.

------------------------------------------------------------

_Review Responses:_

**Jen Rock**_ - Thankyou very much for your kind and detailed review! I'm always grateful when people point out pieces of imagery they really liked (it helps me do more of the same in future!)_

**Meow **_- Thankyou very much for the encouragement! I hope you enjoyed Chapter 4. _

**Tagg -**_ :KJ chuckles: Thankyou for such an enthusiastic review, it brightened my day. :) I hope you're pleased - he's finally awake..._

**Hades' Phoenix** _- I'm not great at writing romance...though I occasionally try (and then hide in a cupboard until the barrage of rotten tomatoes stops) And ah... "Best of All." I loved that story from the first time I read it. But I wasn't planning to use that particular plot point here (although it could be interesting...hmmm...:makes evil plotting noises:) I can't help wanting my Batman to be a thinker as well as a fighter, I'm a sucker for men who think. :) Thankyou for more compliments, and look, he's actually awake now. Just for you._

**SchattenShadow **_- Careful in that straitjacket! I'm glad you're enjoying the continued story. _

**Nightmare1 **_- Thankyou:) I must admit I've always loved the duality of Gotham, and this is going to remain a central theme in this story. (Listen to me, I sound like an English lecturer...)_

**Robster72**_ - Yay, you liked that bit of description! I had a lot of fun visualising that part and writing it. Lovely to know it's appreciated._


	5. Chapter 5

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 5**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: Thankyou for all your support and suggestions! You guys are great. Proper review responses at the end of the chapter as before._

_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

I hadn't dared leave the room for more than ten minutes since Batman left.

Although I really, truly, didn't want to be stuck in there with him, my brain couldn't help but show me all the horrific possibilities if he somehow got loose. So I stayed, watching him lie there and occasionally twitch, wishing every second for Batman's return.

But then I got beeped: it happens all the time on the night shift, and I had to go.

Coma ward. My least favourite. At least in the crazy ward the people look vital and alive and…well, they still look like people, or at least living things. In the vegetable zone the people just look like corpses already. Breathing corpses, warm corpses, with wan, tired relatives clasping their lifeless fingers and telling them about little Tommy's first junior high sports day while little Tommy himself screams loudly because Daddy looks so scary with those tubes all over him…

It makes me depressed, so I do all I can to avoid going there. But tonight Mr Sampson (RTA, almost eighteen months ago) was finally giving up the ghost, so I had to be there. Had to say I tried.

And of course, Mrs Wright was there. Again.

She's always there, it seems, Mrs Wright. She's only young, but even younger is her little daughter, Josephine, who's been here for just a little over three years. She was here in the veg ward before I got here, and at this rate she'll be here when I leave. The hospital let her stay out of visiting hours, simply I guess because they know full well we're very unlikely to be able to offer any hope to the woman. Josephine is nine, now, but somewhere inside that skinny body is still locked the mind of a six-year-old. I'm not too sure what happened to her: some kind of accident. It was in the papers, I think, just when I was moving into my first apartment, the first one I bought for myself. From that time when I wondered what the hell I was getting myself into, staying in Gotham, because the Joker was on the loose again…

So Mrs Wright doesn't even seem to notice as Mr Sampson slips away under the hands of me and the crash team, and she keeps her eyes on her child as I hurry back out to return to the poky little private room where Gotham's finest mass murderer is lying on the bed -

- and now _he's_ got his eyes on me.

Oh shit. Oh god help me. He's awake.

Not the vague, fading consciousness of before, either: he's _watching _me, intently, and I can almost hear him thinking. I stand with my back to the closed door, unable to move, and I can't think of a thing to say except, _damn, you must have the constitution of a **horse**. _

I don't say that. So he, apparently quite calmly, clears his throat and says: "Since when have you started using these tacky old restraints again, hmmm? You know it's useless."

His voice is cracking and deceptively soft because of the condition of his throat. I swallow, hard - _answer the patient, Ari _- and say:

"I - Batman gave those -"

He interrupts with a snort and an eye roll of pure contempt. "Batman. I must have smacked my poor old brainpan on something really critical this time." He cranes his long neck, looking around with interest. "Hold the phone! This isn't Arkham. I'm not getting any of those welcome-back-thou-good-and-trusted-servant vibes. I feel quite unloved."

I'm trying really hard to put together the words in my head, but I can't seem to get them out. He continues to rattle off nineteen to the dozen, effortlessly, despite his sore throat.

"Say, is this an ordinary hospital? Hey Doc, I think they pulled a fast one on you. I'm not supposed to be here, I'm supposed -"

He stops, abruptly. The chalky brow creases in thought. For a moment the heavy lines that stretch around his permanent grin relax, until he is almost pouting.

"What _am_ I doing here?"

I find my voice as he sits up with a grunt of effort, the metal of the cuff clanking against the bed, and thank god, I sound calm and I'm not stammering like a seventh-grader.

"You're ill. Please lie down."

"Lie down? Oh, all right. I'm good at lying."

To my huge relief he lies back obediently against the pillows. He raises the cuffed wrist with a wink and says, "These things are great. Comfortable, practical, come in a variety of colours to suit every occasion, and best of all, I'm sure you'll agree, extremely secure. Practically unpick-able."

I watch him with the same horrible fascination with which people watch road accidents - you know it's going to distress and upset you, but you still can't look away - as he follows that up with:

"Of course, you could just save me the trouble and gimmie the keys."

He smiles. The road accident I'm reluctantly watching just got a whole lot more bloody and full of dismemberment. That smile is so damn freaky it makes me feel like a five-year-old again, scared of things that might be lurking outside the safety of the duvet in the darkness.

It's then of course that I realise I don't _have _any keys for these cuffs. Batman never gave them to me. Perhaps he figured it was safer that way - I couldn't be bribed or begged to let him go if I physically didn't have the ability to do so.

Right now, backed against the door, I personally think Batman was wrong. The Joker does something improbable with a flick of his wrist and his long fingers, and the cuff rattles emptily against the bed frame.

"Doc," says the Joker to me, massaging his liberated wrist, "about the 'practically unpick-able' thing I was saying?"

When my utter horror refuses to allow me to respond with any more than a strangled gasp, he grins, hugely. "Told ya I was good at lying."

**Gotham General Hospital, Intensive Care Ward, 3.03 am.**

From beside the woman's bed, Batman looked down at her, the spill of greying hair over the pillow and the tangle of life-supporting tubes spread out like the tentacles of a squid from her face.

_I'm so sorry, Leslie. But I promise you I will bring whoever did this to the justice they deserve. _

He reached out with one gauntlet and carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. As always, he felt the detachment the armour gave him. He couldn't feel if her skin was warm or cold: nor the simple animal comfort that comes with being able to feel the touch of human skin against your own.

_Is this what makes me a superhero? Super…from the Latin, **supra**, meaning "above". I am above humanity but yet I cannot drag myself away from it…_

He looked up sharply at a slight sound. A woman, looking older than she should with years of worry and loss of hope, had just walked out of the coma ward opposite. She was crying with the almost passionless intensity of one who had cried every day, every night, for as long as she could recall. There were no tears.

_How can I claim to be above all this when all around me people are loving, dying, failing or succeeding? We are the same, that woman and I. _

He ducked silently back into the shadows so that the weeping woman would not see him, and turned toward the window.

_One more thing to do. Time to call in at Arkham and use my "super" nature to its best effect. _

_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

I think I'm starting to realise why this man is the most dangerous villain in this city by a clear mile. He's recovering from what amounts to a semi-coma state, but although his body is weak, his brain is already ticking over, sharp as a tack and as focussed as a NASA telescope. He rolls his eyes again at my lack of response and examines the drip in his arm.

"Oh, jeez. C'mon, Doc, break it to me gently. Am I gonna play the piano again? What is it this time? Broken ribs? Internal bleeding? I ache all over, you're gonna have to tell me what the Batfreak busted inside of me." He gives me a conspiratorial look. "Y'know, I'm starting to think he doesn't like me."

"You don't remember?" I hear myself saying, before I can think better of it. The Joker furrows his brow and pouts at me suspiciously.

"Well…_no_," he says, eventually. "But I wanna guess! Come on, come on, gimmie Twenty Questions. Let me see. Batman catches me doing something very very naughty like escaping from Arkham. He tells me to mend my wicked ways and come play in the kindergarten with him and all his Care Bear chums, I tell him no, he hits me, and _bam! _I end up in the quack house with you."

He coughs, harshly, doubling over his thin chest as the spasm racks his body. The sharp green eyes flick up to me as the fit passes and he begins to recover.

"Am I getting close?"

I wonder briefly if it would be better to humour him. I open my mouth to speak, and -

"Except that I'm not, am I?" he cuts in again. "I can see it in your eyes. I'm waaaaaaay off the mark. Huh."

He seems honestly intrigued by this concept, and examines the cuff dangling loosely from the bed frame for a moment or so. "So what's wrong with me? Give it to me straight. I can take it." He looks up with apparently mild, plaintive eyes. "I'm…I'm having a baby, aren't I? Oh, I _knew _that soldier-boy was no good. Should've listened to my Momma…"

"I…I don't know…" I stammer. He heaves a dramatic sigh.

"And for this I pay my medical insurance? I _must_ be crazy."

And then, before I can even blink or fully open the door behind me, he's off the bed with his long hands around my throat. The IV stand, still plugged into his veins, crashes to the floor as he drags it half across the room with him.

Jesus, Mary, Mother of God. I'm going to die. The grin is inches from my face, and the stink of smoke and antiseptic curls off him in dizzying waves. Terror lances through me in a clenching shudder and my hand slips from the half-opened door handle. My eyes don't have any memory of seeing him move. He's fast, even half-doped up on painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs, he's far too fast -

"Glad to see you're feeling better, Joker," says a familiar voice dryly, directly behind me. I embarrass myself by giving a choking sob of relief. The long white fingers loosen their grip, although I can still feel the vicious intent of the squeeze in every muscle.

"So nice when people care enough to visit. I hope you brought grapes." The Joker backs off slowly towards the bed, and even through my fear I can see that his attack on me has cost him more dearly than he anticipated: he is swaying a little on his feet and his breath is catching in his throat. He sits down on the edge of the mattress and hacks like a fifty-a-day smoker.

"Better than that," says the Batman, stepping past me into the room with a hand pressed briefly to my shoulder. I don't think he's trying to comfort me: more just making sure I'm placed safely behind him. In his other hand, he's holding up a videotape.

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_Review Responses_

_**Nightmare1 **- Thankyou! I'm glad you like dthat little piece of Gordon introspection. I was happy with the way it turned out. _

_**Robster72 **- heh, I'm evil with cliffhangers like that. This chapter isn't so cliffhangery. And I always think of that car as being an extension of its owner, so it's a real joy to describe. As for who brought Joker down? next chapter should start going into it..._

_**Spectral Sereda** - :KJ hugs with real affection: Y'know, you didn't have to come and read this story. Honest. But thankyou for the pre-chapter beta-ing and for all the encouragement you've given me, now and always. _

_**Whisk** - Thankyou! Very glad to hear it._

_**Meow -** :KJ chuckles: He certainly is! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and that I updated quickly enough. _

_**Chewie-2006** - Thankyou! I always felt sorry for Gordon in the comics - Gotham is a lot to deal with. _

_**Hades' Phoenix** - :KJ whoops with laughter: If you like my Jim Gordon, you'll love my Renee Montoya too, baby...you're right, it does sound twisted and wrong. Generally, it's not the sweet nothings that are my downfall, it's the trying-not-to-throw-up-while-typing-slush thang... _

_**JediKacee **- Thankyou very much! The best compliment anyone can give me about this story is that it feels, even in any small way, like reading a comic book. That way I know I'm doing at least one thing right! _

_**Natasha Compagnon** - :KJ squeaks and pounces: You and Sereda both followed me over to my alter ego at FFnet...you brave, foolish people. Thankyou for being so nice. And there was plenty more Joker in this last chapetr, I hope. Thankyou, very glad to hear it!_

_**Cyn Wraith** - Thankyou for such a detailed, honest and kind review! I too love watching Batman and the Joker interact, simply because they are utterly opposed but utterly similar in so many ways. I'm far more used to writing oneshots and purely suspense stories, and having to set up a plot like this is kind of difficult for me. I hope it'll get more and more exciting, specially now our green-haired friend is awake. _


	6. Chapter 6

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 6**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: I'm in the process of recruiting some very nice and helpful betas for this story - this chapter beta'd for me by the ever-helpful Spectral Sereda. Review Responses at the end of the chapter like before._

_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

"I hope this is gonna be tasteful, Batsy. I shall be disappointed in you if this turns out to be "Fetish Chicks with Swedish Babes". I'd expect you to be more kinky than that…"

The Joker laughs, that high-pitched raucous sound that has no real humour in it, and I feel all the hairs on the back of my neck rise. To the untrained eye he looks much recovered, but to me the warning signs are all there. He's running on adrenalin and willpower, but it can't sustain him. The pure energy that seems to make up his conscious nature is far too much of a drain on his battered body. He coughs, painfully, every couple of minutes.

I often wondered if Batman took Pro-plus or something to keep going night after night. I mean, I guess he's got a regular-guy life too, this costumed stuff can't pay well. But maybe he's always functioning like the Joker is now - the body managing to continue because the option of collapse is so abhorrent to the brain.

I sneak a look at the half-face under the cowl as I fumble at untangling the cables.

How long can anyone keep going like that? It's very bad for your health, both mental and physical. I should know, I went 56 hours without proper sleep once at med school studying for finals, and I was paranoid and hallucinating by the last hour or so. Is this what makes men dress up like bats and clowns and beat the hell out of each other with weird-ass gadgets all over town?

The knots in the cables on the VCR fall out in my hands. It took me less time than I'd expected to find a player and hook it up to the battered old TV screen in the corner of the room. Turns out the admin staff have a cushy little deal going on in their break room: VCR, radio, video games, the lot. Who knew? All we get is a few couches and a coffee machine.

My brain is working overtime trying to ignore the deep ache setting up in my half-strangled throat. The Joker seems intrigued by the whole situation: he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, his toes gripped in his white hands, rocking slightly with glee. The IV stand, which Batman has carefully stood upright again, rattles cheerfully with his movements. Possibly the sheer novelty of not being in Arkham is jazzing him up.

Batman remains at all times between me and the madman, as if it's second nature to him to do so. He gives the tape to me and I push it into the machine with a small flare of curiosity of my own.

It's a security log. There's a date and timer counting the seconds in the corner, and the texture of the pictures is ever so slightly grainy. It's also in black and white, and silent. The figure on the screen is instantly recognisable, however, monochrome or not.

"I do so love seeing quality programming on TV," says the genuine article, from his place on the bed. "Is there any popcorn? My, what a handsome devil."

This must be a log from Arkham. The Joker seems to warrant his own private camera, as most of the shots are of his sharp, distorted face as he paces a small, Spartan cell. Batman does not dignify any of his enemy's remarks with a response. He merely remains intent on the screen.

The Joker in the video seems to be holding a conversation with thin air: the illusion is broken after a few minutes as three people in medical smocks come into the cell, flanked by four guards with guns slung across their bodies and stun guns in their hands. I have to admit, even having experienced it firsthand for myself, I'm still a little shocked by the fear this man inspires. His physical statistics, leaving his considerable height aside, are uninspiring compared to the slabs of pure muscle dragging him around on the screen. But the Arkham doctors don't even approach him until the guards have him shackled wrist and ankle with restraints that look far more hefty than the single cuff dangling empty from my hospital bed frame. The guards, once they have the Joker cuffed and held securely between them, march him over to the doctors, where a brief (and judging from the expressions on the female doctor's face, unsatisfying) exchange of words goes on. He is then marched from the room and the tape cuts out.

"Yawn," says the Joker, sounding immensely unimpressed. "You could at least have bothered to film me in the shower."

The tape, having reached the end, is rewinding automatically. It reaches the beginning again, clicks, and auto-plays. The little scene repeats. Batman leans down to stare into his enemy's face.

"Thirty-seven minutes after this was recorded, you were out of Arkham. Why."

I notice he isn't bothering to ask how.

"Oh sweetheart," purrs the Joker with another huge, theatrical yawn, "who knows? The lure of the bright lights? Wanting to see one more ball game before I go to the big dugout in the sky? Or maybe I was coming home to see my childhood sweetheart Mary-Sue." He leans forward until his sharp white face is almost brushing the blackness of the cowl before him. "Batsy. Baby. In all the years we've been important to each other, have I ever needed a _reason_ to escape from the old homestead?"

Batman makes no indication that this spurious outburst has affected him at all. He seems sunk in thought, and turns away from the grinning face to stare once again at the TV as it plays that sequence over and over. I find myself staring too as the tape whirrs, rewinds, plays again. I watch the Joker onscreen heckling his captors cheerfully as they restrain him. The real Joker behind me sighs with boredom, and I can feel his gaze sweep across me as he starts looking around the room. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle again in response to his careless scrutiny - an ancient response, my body's way of saying _look, a predator! Hide, hide!_

And then Batman, immobile for the last few minutes, straightens suddenly. "Stop. Rewind."

I jolt forward, guiltily, as it takes me a moment to realise he's talking to me. I hit the buttons on the remote, and the tape hums as it winds back.

Again we watch the Joker grinning and laughing at the guards as they manhandle his skinny body. The guards are all wearing eye protection as well as Kevlar. They look more like Wild Animal control than hospital security. Batman takes the remote from me and pauses the tape. "There."

I wish I could see what he is seeing. The paused image is of the Joker in mid-turn, his hands dragged up in front of him as he is bound. His shoulder blades push out the plain grey of his coverallsas he turns: his teeth flash, frozen by the pause button, in his predator's grin.

So what is Batman so intent on?

There is a sudden rattle from the IV stand. The Joker has moved forward on his hands and knees, his mad green eyes as intent as Batman's. Whatever it is, he's seen it too.

"God_damnit!"_ he explodes, abruptly. He sounds utterly furious, and I flinch back from the bed instinctively. Batman turns, seeming to gain a foot in height as he leans toward the madman.

"Who did it, Joker?" he demands, but the Joker is oblivious with rage, the bed sheets knotted in his grip as he glares at the frozen picture on the TV.

"They _darted _me_?"_

Batman is obviously no more comfortable than I am with the madman's sudden shift of mood. He looms menacingly over the bed, cloak flaring out as he moves.

"_Who?"_

The crazy eyes glare up at me suddenly, not at Batman, but at _me_ - and I'm caught like a rabbit in the oncoming headlights. Can't move. I can feel the sweat on my face going cold. "What do they take me for," demands the Joker of me, indignantly, "a _criminal_?"

And he laughs, merrily, at his own witticism. The laughter doesn't last, though. He breaks down, coughing hard, and my training drives me forward to check him as he drops over on his side, shuddering.

Batman is too late to stop me. The Joker's hand comes up as I bend down: he punches me square in the jaw. The shock of the blow is, luckily for me, far greater than the pain. My teeth ache from the impact, but the madman has little strength in him now. Giggling weakly, he rolls onto his back as Batman shoves me backwards with a single sweep of his arm and moves in to pin his enemy's spasming body.

Closer to the TV now, and rubbing my bruised face, I finally see what both of them were so worked up about. In the hollow of one of the Joker's shoulder blades as he turns in the grip of the guards is a tiny hypodermic dart. Minute. Far smaller and more precise than the hypo that must have made the subsequent hole in his neck. I wouldn't even have felt it go in, I'm sure, and I'm betting the Joker never felt its effects until it was far too late.

"The cameras went down for only a minute," I hear the Batman say in a low, threatening tone. "The last image of you they have, you're weaving like a drunk, alone in your cell. You could barely stand up straight. But they were so busy wondering how you did it this time and worrying about where you'd gone, they never gave it a second thought. And besides," and he leans his full weight down on his arms, the tinge of scorn in his voice strengthening briefly, "how could they ever really notice any aberrant behaviour in _you_?"

The Joker fights against the restraining hands. Useless.

"I don't think you know what happened."

The tape unpauses itself, starts to run its cycle all over again.

"I don't even think you know how you escaped."

There is a resounding _thunk _on the word "escaped" as the Joker's foot connects with Batman's midriff. Batman seems unmoved. Then the thrashing abruptly ceases: the Joker looks up and pouts at the cowled man.

"I…I went and _escaped?_ Without inviting myself to_ watch?"_

His face crumples in an immensely forlorn manner - a child who's just been told he slept all the way through Christmas. "Awww…but that's all the fun of it gone right there! It's like a cream pie with no cream…and no pie…and hey, wait a minute, it was pizza for lunch tomorrow! Darn. The best meal that crummy joint could offer and I couldn't even -"

A heavy gauntlet slams over his mouth. This provokes indignation and, inevitably, another coughing fit, a genuine one this time. Then Batman says something that surprises me…

"We're going to do this my way," he says firmly to the spluttering Joker, "or not at all."

The Joker takes three deep breaths in quick succession, which seems to buy him enough lung space to speak, and says, quite clearly and in a tone which almost sounds sane:

"I want revenge."

"You'll get it," says Batman, which I have to say doesn't comfort me any. "But you're going to do it my way."

His tone is irrefutable. The Joker watches his serious, intent expression for a whole twenty seconds, green eyes wide and innocent: then his face seems to split in that awful grin as he lolls his head back weakly and laughs, and laughs, and laughs…

**Gotham Hospital, 4.22 a.m.**

_Well,_ thought Batman with a lingering curl of distaste hanging around his upper lip as he watched Doctor Kelly endeavour to fit a sling around the Joker's neck,_ at least **someone**'s appreciating the irony._

_-------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Review Responses:_

_**Robster72 **- Heh, you're right. The Joker's never very good with the truth. But as you see, he's really having a few issues with his memory right now. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!_

_**Spectral Sereda** - :KJ hugs: Well, you already knew what was going to happen here, didn't you:P I'm glad you agree with me - he IS like a car crash. A car crash in a Lambourgini factory. I hope you're up for betaing again. _

_**giveGodtheglory-** Thankyou very much! I'm glad you enjoying my Joker, I'm constantly worried that I will get him wrong. Hope you liked him in this chapter too!_

_**Cyn Wraith -** I'm pleased that my cliffhangers don't seem contrived. There isn't one in this chapter! I hope you enjoyed the dialogue here, and I promise there's more to come. _

_**Nightmare1 **- Hee, with the Joker, there's ALWAYS an opportunity for comic relief. I'm glad you picked out that quote, it was one I'm particularly fond of. _

_**Meow -** See? no cliffhanger this time! I'm really happy you liked the Joker's comments - well, they always make ME laugh. :) _

_**Smeeel1716 **- Thankyou very much! I hope you enjoyed this new chapter._

_**chewie-2006 -** Thankyou! I'll keep writing as long as people keep reading. _

_**Kelly Renee -** Thankyou very much! I updated quite quickly I think. :)_

_**Farthingale -** :KJ squeaks, pounces and hugs: I never knew you had an FFnet account! Thankyou for leaving such a long and complimentary review. I assure you, anything that doesn't sound Jokerish is purely due to lack of talent on my part and probably not to the boy's mental state. oh yes, and "Je suis Puddle de la Goo." Like you haven't done that to me enough times with your YJG. I just hope I can continue to live up to your standards with this little tale of psychotic mass-murdering clowns and the hospitals they go to._


	7. Chapter 7

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 7**

_**Author's Note:** I haven't given an update to this in too long. Combination of writer's block and author illness, I'm afraid. I think this chapter is a little ropy, myself, but in the unlikely event that anyone's still reading this I wanted to give it to you anyhow. Review Responses for previous chapter at the end, as before. To anyone who's still out there - thankyou for your wonderful patience with an author who's almost as sick as the Joker has been, right now..._

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

**Gotham Hospital, 4.32 a.m.**

The Joker hadn't stopped laughing now for almost ten minutes. Occasionally the hacking cough would mingle with his whoops of hysteria. Dr Kelly, understandably loath to get any closer to him than absolutely necessary, snapped the catch of the sling closed with a sigh of relief and stepped back in a hurry.

"Okay," he said, his voice betraying the stresses and strains that this night had so far laid upon him. "He's good. He can go."

"What about the results of the blood test," reminded Batman, as gently as he could manage. There were times when being dark, shadowy and intimidating stood him in good stead for getting what he needed - _however, _Batman thought, grimly observing the lines of weariness and fear that were etching themselves deeper into the doctor's brow, _this is not one of those times. This is a good man. He doesn't deserve to have this intrusion into his normal life. _

"Oh! Oh, damnit. I'll go down and get them. I clean forgot. He seemed so much..uh…I mean..."

There was a soft knock at the door, and Kelly jumped like a guilty man.

"Dr Kelly?" came the voice from outside. "Are you in there? I got some results for you. Dave sent them up with some other stuff from the path lab."

The door handle began to turn. Batman's hand instantly grasped it, held it shut. He raised a single finger at Kelly, eyes warning.

_No-one must know. _

"Uh, hang on, Geneve," Kelly managed in a tone of such brittle brightness that Batman inwardly began to be worried for the man, "I'm just coming."

The doctor managed to insert himself effectively into the gap of the door as it opened, blocking anyone's view of the little room. Batman, who was by now by the bed with a hand muffling the Joker's continuing fit of hysteria, kept low and watched until the door closed again.

Kelly scanned the results swiftly: he looked a little perplexed.

"Well?" Batman asked, ignoring the fact that the Joker was by now struggling under his hand and attempting to bite him.

"Well, uh, it's…"

The doctor ran a finger along the paper as if trying to make sense of it. "It…apart from enough sedative to knock over a horse…nothing concrete. Looks like flu…"

The Joker started another coughing fit and Batman was forced to loosen his hold or risk him choking to death.

_And much as I wish I was the kind of man who could remove him from this city for good - I'm not. I'm not in the business of killing. _

"It's possible there's some kind of toxin in the sedative I'm missing," Kelly went on. "Or the virus in his body reacted badly with it. I'd need more time to be sure." His tone was rapidly becoming flatter and more weary.

_Toxin. This gets better and better. Batman watched Kelly's puzzled frown deepen with a lurch of foreboding. And he thinks I'm going to leave the Joker here with him until I have an answer. _

Behind the mask, Batman allowed himself a moment's sympathy with the man. No-one expected to have a loose cannon like the Joker suddenly explode into their lives and cause untold damage, whether mental or physical.

_Normal people just can't cope with this. Eventually, they will snap. _

_I guess that means I'm not normal. Or possibly that I've already snapped._

_Alfred would be proud of me for finally admitting I have a problem._

"I'm taking him with me," he said, and enjoyed the look of overwhelming relief on the doctor's face. "Keep looking into the results if you can."

"Of course," Kelly said, with the only hint of smile he'd managed all night. His shoulders were already settling back, his air of tension beginning to fade. "Y'know, it's funny? I never pictured you as the sort of guy who brought people to hospital to make them better. Put 'em IN hospital, sure, you're good at that….and specially this guy…" A jerked thumb indicated the Joker, who was recovering from his latest attack and glowering theatrically up from behind a clutched fold of bed sheet.

"Contrary to what you may believe, I don't want to hurt him, Doctor. I want to stop him hurting other people. I want to help him."

_And I believe that sentiment, too…except in very dark hours when I can't sleep and all I can see are the faces of the people he's killed…then , I want to hurt him…_

"You're a good man," Kelly said with genuine sincerity. "Personally? I'd say he was beyond all help. But I guess you have to try, right?"

"Right." Batman reached down and grasped the Joker's thin arm in one massive black glove, pulling the madman upright. The Joker protested loudly.

"Aw, come on. Just another five minutes. I don't have to go to school, I'm sick, see?" An outbreak of overblown coughing. "See? Feel my forehead. I'm burning up, I tell ya."

Batman kicked the pair of sooty Cuban heels that Kelly had removed when putting the Joker on the bed toward him. Kelly stepped back as the Joker sat on the edge of the mattress and sulked.

"Put your shoes on. We're going for a walk, you and I."

"Well," said the Joker, grudgingly with a scarlet pout, "all right. But you may have to help me with my shoelaces. I skipped class they day they were teaching us complicated knots…"

Batman narrowed his eyes, feeling the swell of anger begin to rise inside him.

_How does he manage to do this to me? How can his idiotic, childish behaviour manage to infuriate me where threats and violence would not?_

"Just _do_ it, Joker."

"Ahh, a credit to Nike. Say, Batsy, are you going in for sponsorship this year? You know it makes sense - paint Goodyear on the Bat-car and have Stop N Save Bargains tattooed on your chin."

The Joker leant down to put his shoes on in silence after this crack, for which Batman was absurdly grateful.

"Hey."

A touch on his arm, and he turned. Doctor Kelly was regarding him with a serious expression. "Look, I said he's good to go, but he's not by any means running on a full tank. He may tire easily. Possibly experience periods of nausea. Plus, at the moment he's so hopped up on painkillers for his arm I doubt he's even noticing any of the other symptoms."

"He'll be fine," said Batman, watching the Joker suspiciously as the madman patted down his ruined suit fastidiously with his good arm and sighed over the clashing colour of the sling. _He'd better be. _

"All right. But I just had to give you my professional opinion, okay? I'm sure you know what you're doing."

The unspoken _and I want him the hell out of here _hung on Kelly's lips. Batman gave him a brief, hopefully reassuring nod, and snared the Joker's wrist again, dragging him to his feet.

"Come on," he addressed his arch-enemy, who eyeballed him with dislike and then started giggling madly for a reason Batman couldn't fathom, "you're going to do something right for a change…"

**Gotham City, 4.44 a.m. **

"Are we nearly there yet?"

"No."

"Are we nearly there yet?"

"No."

"Are we nearly there yet?"

"No."

Batman ground his teeth silently. High on painkillers and general bonhomie, the Joker was an impossible passenger. The decision to take him out of the relative confinement of the hospital into the city had not been taken lightly: _but, _Batman reasoned, trying to keep his eyes on the GPS unit and not get distracted by the cat's cradle mess the Joker was making of his sling, _the havoc he could wreak if left to his own devices with people who have no idea what he is truly capable of far outweighs my minor inconvenience. And let's not be underestimating the situation here. Nobody truly knows what he's capable of apart from his victims…and me. _

"Are we - "

"No!"

The Joker lolled his head back against the headrest and grinned.

"Where are we going?"

Batman was silent.

"Oooh, a magical mystery tour. I love those. Which one are you, the slack-jawed yokel with the neckerchief or the fat broad with the glasses?"

The Batmobile scythed around a corner into the Jewellery Quarter with a hum, wheels splashing in the wet.

"Zoinks," said the Joker with a gleam in his eye. "I take it back. You've gotta be the big stupid dog. Hmm, that makes me the skinny chick with the squeaky voice. I'm not liking those odds and besides, I don't have the legs for it…"

"Joker. Quiet."

"What, you think my legs are good enough? Well, aren't you just darling."

_Take a deep breath. Don't let him get to you. _

"Does your arm hurt much?" asked Batman, with apparent curiosity.

"Tis a mere scratch, sirrah. Not much, no."

"Do you want to keep it that way?"

"Oh," sighed the Joker, "and after your beautiful touching speech to that nice hospital doctor, too. I don't think I can trust you again, you know."

Batman rammed his foot down on the brake unnecessarily hard and the Batmobile screeched to a halt. The rain beat down ceaselessly on the car's bodywork.

"You win," the Joker said, trying to peer out of the tinted window and failing, "you can be the skinny chick with the squeaky voice. I'll be Mr Blinkley, the amusement park owner. Goshdarnit, and I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for those meddling kids…where are you going?"

Batman leaned across him to check that the extra restraint belts Alfred had put in place were still tightly holding the Joker into his seat.

"Do nothing. Touch nothing. I'll be back."

------------------------------------------------

_**Review Responses:**_

_**Spectral Sereda** - Awww, you're too kind. :) As always. You know I suffer enough from sleep deprivation myself to be very aware of its consquences. See you on Yahoo, hun._

_**Robster72** - I'm glad you think they'll make a good team. They'd certainly scare the hell out of me, I'm sure. Thanks for the compliments and I hope you're still about to be reading more._

_**Kelly Renee** - I just adore writing for the Joker and I'm glad you think I'm getting it right. And of course Batman's a little insane too. He has to be in order to cope. :)_

_**Cheshire **- Thankyou! And you'll be glad to hear that Dr Kelly's diaries are going to be over for a while as Batman takes Joker out into the city._

_**Meow **- Hee, I'm getting good at this non-cliffhanger thingy. I hope. :)_

_**giveGodtheglory **- Well, he IS the villain. I don't imagine he cares much about profanity. I'm glad you liked the rest though. :)_

_**Nightmare1 **- of course Joker isn't going to make things easy for Our Hero. It's what he does!_

_**Hades' Phoenix** - A lovely, long, detailed and complimentary review. My favourite sort! And yes, short chapters are my Achilles heel. I always seem to write in roughly 2000 word stints, then take a break. Weird, I know...I should just keep rattling along, but I don't seem to function that way. (Also I see Clockwork Noir has had a new chapter while I've been lying in bed ill - must put that on my list of catch-ups) Hope you'll forgive the long break in updates._

_**Cyn Wraith** - Thankyou! Dialogue is my favourite part of any story to write and it must show, I guess...only one part of your review puzzled me for a moment, cos Ari is a man:) He started out in my drafts as a woman but ended up as a rather harried black guy._

_**Farthingale** - Well, if YOU'RE evil, then so am I...oh hang on, you knew that. :grin: I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, although a lot of it was the fever talking..._

_**Jedi Kacee** - Thankyou very much! the dynamic is what keeps this story fun for me._

_**Goddess Atua** - Here's more for you! I hope you can forgive me for the long break in updates._

_**tiger witch** - here's some update for you. I hope you like it and thankyou so much for reading._

_**SpiderFreak **- :KJ laughs: "Weird, funny and creepy." You just repeated almost word for word what most people say after meeting me in real life for the first time. It's a great compliment, thankyou!_

_**Dark-Lady-Divinity** - Thankyou very much! This story has a while to run yet, but it has a few dark paths to go down so I hope you enjoy it. _

_**E.A.V.** - Thankyou! I do hope you enjoyed this next installment. _

_I hope I got everyone. Until next time, thankyou all again, you're all stars. _


	8. Chapter 8

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 8**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: A slightly longer chapter for you this time, and a quicker update. I do hope you enjoy it._

_It's like having left the iron on,_ Batman thought as he scaled the side of the building soundlessly_, and having that tiny nagging anxiety that when you get back your house may have burnt down or at very least your rooms will be full of smoke…_

_..I console myself with the thought that at least the car can contain anything he might manage to do, up to and including a fire - aha. There we go._

He stopped outside a second-floor window with one broken pane covered in a web of tiny cracks spanning out from a neat bullet-hole. Inside, a dirty yellow light bathed three figures at a table set some way back from the glass in the centre of the floor. The rest of the room was full of boxes, crates and through the broken pane Batman could smell the curls of stale smoke and the reek of damp woodwork that has only ever had the chance to partially dry out. Some sort of argument seemed to be going on among the figures at the table, and a warm waft of Chinese noodles hit Batman as he swung into the room with a crash through the rotten timbers and cheap, weak glass.

_Someone ordered moo goo gai pan and got shanghai prawns? That's what this argument is about? The criminals of my city are astounding in their complexity. _

_Perhaps this is why they're so easily impressed with a man who can break an elderly window and dodge a tray of rice thrown at his head by a drunken idiot without difficulty. They don't have high expectations and those expectations are disappointed so often anyway…_

He left the building by the front door about six minutes later, and approached his car with (he had to admit) vague trepidation. He deactivated the lock and the doors slid back with a whisper.

"Now I know you're sick," he said, folding his arms and addressing his passenger. "You're still here."

"Close the door," snapped the Joker peevishly, "the rain is ruining my coiffure and you don't want to have to pay for a new 'do on your care in the community allowance, believe me."

Batman got into the car and the doors slid closed. Rain dripped from his shoulders and cape into the foot well and over the upholstery. The Batmobile curved smoothly out into the road under a wash of low hanging cloud.

"Next rest stop I want ice cream," said the Joker, worrying at his restraints like an animal, first with his nails, then with his oversized, even teeth. The straps remained intact. "Where are we going anyway?"

"The marina," came the reply.

"The docks? Now look, I knew you'd fallen on hard times, but sleeping with foreign sailors? That's low, even for you."

"When we get there," Batman continued, ignoring the quip, "I will release the restraints and you will come with me and do what I tell you."

"Oooh," grinned the Joker, "am I paying you for this or are you paying me?"

"You will do," repeated Batman with all the patience he could muster, "what I tell you."

The Joker lolled the red length of his tongue disrespectfully. "Tease."

His captor narrowed his eyes at him in irritation.

"You may even enjoy it."

The Joker clapped his bound hands together in delight. "I knew it! We're going to Disneyworld!"

The criminals cheated of their Chinese meal had been very helpful, in the way of all wrongdoers dangled several inches off the floor by their collars. They were small-time: a few casual petty thieves who hung around on the edges of the Murietta gang and did occasional thug work for whatever boss had risen to the top of the heap that month. But they had one important asset: they had Danny Wallace. Danny, who seemed to have a unique gift for memorizing unusual and interesting things that went on in the underworld. Danny, who couldn't seem to help noticing things happen when a whole crowd of slightly more intelligent criminals swore blind that nothing had happened at all, honest, and besides they'd been at home in bed all night.

Danny, whose almost photographic memory was only rivalled by his almost incurable case of verbal diarrhoea when Batman slammed him against the wall. He had remembered a huge amount of useless information - and one useful fact.

Just over a fortnight ago a courier from an internationally known black market pharmaceutical organisation had delivered to the apartment of one Alonso Butrassi. The delivery had come refrigerated, and had been very small.

_Butrassi…A name I recognise. He's a hitman…and he's a good one, even by my standards. He has one weakness, though: he's a coward. A lot of snipers like him are. They can only be in control from a safe distance. _

Batman steered smoothly out onto the waterfront road, trying to ignore the sound of the Joker whistling "It's a Small World After All" through his teeth and pulling at his restraints.

_And I have the advantage of Alonso tonight. I know where he lives…and he doesn't know I'm coming._

The Batmobile slid silently to a halt in one of the multiple tiny alleyways leading down to the marina, where the rich men's yachts lay soaking on the water under the heavy rain.

"Joker," the Batman said seriously, tapping the madman's arm to get his attention. "Time to go to work."

Alonso Butrassi let himself into his small apartment, heavy paper sack of groceries balanced precariously under one arm. He slammed the door shut behind him with a swing of his thin hips and threw the keys across the hall table with a rattle.

The money he'd been paid for this last job hadn't been enough. Nowhere near enough to cover his debts – especially considering the time and extra trouble he'd gone to preparing the darts. He began to unpack the bag without bothering to turn on the lights. The watery moonlight filtering in through the window and gleaming dully on the oily night waters of Gotham Marina below was light enough: and besides, if he was going to have to tighten his belt for a while, electricity might be one of the things to start with.

Because he certainly wasn't going to be taking on a job like that again soon, not a chance. The difficulty of the mark, the materials and preparation aside, no money on earth would be enough to wipe away the nightmares he'd had after spending two weeks living in Arkham, his only focus that devil's perpetually grinning face…no wonder he couldn't sleep at night and had to fill his time doing his grocery shopping at the all-night store…

"Hello, Alonso."

A packet of rice exploded, littering the already dirty floor as Alonso's hand gripped it in shock. Shaking, panicked, he fumbled for the light switch, and the kitchen sprang into warm, cheerful illumination.

The Joker was standing on the other side of the kitchen table, his thin, angular body leant carelessly against the refrigerator. His left arm was in a sling, and he was not smiling.

"Got any cheese?" asked the Joker, gesturing at the paper sack with a flick of his long fingers. When Alonso, petrified, shook his head, the Joker clicked his tongue in disapproval and moved away from the fridge. "No? But don't you know that cheese is full of calcium? Mother Nature's bone-strengthener?" He indicated the cast on his arm. "I didn't get enough dairy in my diet, and look what happened to me. Still. There's hope for you yet, I'm sure."

He began to root around in the grocery bag.

"It wasn't personal!" Alonso gasped, finally finding his voice through the tight, strangling haze of panic that was threatening to overcome him. "I mean - I'm sorry…"

The Joker looked up from the bag, an expression of huge regret on his face.

"You should be," he said, and hefted a packet to Alonso's eyeline. "Microwave hamburgers? The cholesterol special of boil-in-the-bun-fun? Really, young man, haven't you heard the name of the biggest killer roaming Gotham's fair streets?"

He turned and flung the burger at the wall, abruptly. It stuck for a moment, then started to slide down slowly.

"Heart attacks, kiddo, _heart attacks_ kill over twenty-five percent of middle-aged men every year in Gotham alone…and they call_ me_ a murderer…."

Alonso's eyes tracked the descent of the burger with almost hypnotised intent. His mind was struggling through the panic, looking for possibilities, something, anything to get him out of this alive. There had to be something. He could get at his weapons, his nearest gun was in the breadbin behind the Joker…

And the Joker was alone.

When his eyes turned back to his uninvited guest, the Joker was smiling, and that smile leached all hope out of Alonso's body.

"I know what you're thinking," the madman said, the scarred lines of his mouth stretched to full extent as he grinned. "You're thinking, 'He's alone here. He's just one skinny clown, and hey look, he's got his arm in a cast. How hard can it be to take him out, a guy with a broken arm?' "

The Joker threw back his head and gave a hoarse crow of laughter. Not thinking, with the laugh tearing along his nerves like razor-wire, Alonso put his head down and rushed him, taking refuge in the act of a man who knows that flight will do him no good and that fight is his last option.

A bony knee came up sharply into his groin, and as he grunted with the shock of that, something cold and hard that went thunk as it connected slammed down into the back of his neck.

"And I know what you're thinking even now," the voice of the Joker whispered cheerfully in his ear as he staggered. "You're thinking, 'surely no-one is crazy enough to use their broken arm as a weapon', hmmm?"

Alonso felt surprising strength as a thin arm shoved him hard into the side of the kitchen sink. His head smacked into the taps and white agony pulsed through his skull.

"Sadly for you," the Joker continued, as Alonso gave an animal moan and tasted his own blood in his mouth, "everything you've been thinking is wrong, wrong, bad and_ wrong…"_

Alonso felt his collar being snagged, and he looked up into sharp green eyes above a predator's grin. The Joker regarded him with twinkling amusement.

"See what happens to your brain when you don't get enough healthy greens?" the Joker said in a school-marm's sing-song tones. He reached out and plucked an egg from the carton in the ravaged grocery bag, holding it up before Alonso's bloodshot eyes. "This is your brain. This – " and the egg smashed as it hit the floor " – is your brain on drugs. And this – " he tapped his own forehead with a cold, vindictive look in his eyes, "- is _my_ brain on drugs! The drugs _you _put there!"

Alonso's teeth clacked together as he tried to speak. He could feel, numbly at first, but with gathering pain, that several of them were loose or broken.

"Enough," said a new voice from somewhere in the dark beyond the kitchen units. "Enough now. It's time to stop."

The Joker pouted like a child. "Aww, but Pops, I'm not tired yet. Do I gotta go to bed? I wanna stay up and watch Johnny Carson…"

"Enough," repeated the voice, and although it spoke quietly, the tone cut through the room like a knife. The figure of the Batman emerged out of the darkness by the door like an optical illusion, the long cape sliding out of the shadow like a spill of indian ink.

The relief that washed over Alonso was like ice water. Batman. The Joker was no match for Batman, everyone knew that. It was in the papers all the time. When Batman got involved, the Joker took a pretty hard fall.

If he had been thinking perhaps a little more clearly, he might have questioned the Joker's blasé attitude towards the arrival of his nemesis: but his mind had latched on whole-heartedly to one thought.

"Oh god. Thankyou. Thanks, man, thanks…"

His hands scrabbled at Batman as he lurched away from the Joker and stumbled to his knees. The face hidden in the cowl looked down at him sternly, tiny points of reflected moonlight gleaming from within the hollows of the eyesockets. The Joker stood watching, an improbable carnival figure in the little kitchen, his thin shoulders lifting slightly as he breathed hard.

"Don't thank me yet," said the Batman in a low, flat tone. "Tell me who hired you."

Alonso shook his head drunkenly, seeing as he did so one tooth fly out and strike the Joker's lapel. The Joker brush-brushed fastidiously with his good hand.

"Tell me," repeated the Batman, in the same uninflected manner.

"I can't! Listen, I'll go to prison, I don't care, anything…"

His bloodied hand fluttered anxiously in the direction of the Joker, who looked immensely pleased. "…just get me away from_ him!"_

There was a long pause, the dramatic effect of which was slightly spoilt by the Joker bouncing on his Cuban heels and parroting: "Can I kill him, Bats? Can I? Can I? Go on, Bats, can I kill him? Huh-huh-huh?"

Batman looked down at Alonso emotionlessly.

"Tell me," he repeated a third time. "Or I give you back to him and I walk out of here."

Everything went grey before Alonso's eyes. His glazed eyes fixed on the thin, grim line of the mouth under the bat-eared cowl, staring in horrified disbelief – then to the Joker, smiling his demon's smile.

"You…you're…you're working _together_?" he choked, his throat clenching in renewed horror as the Joker gave a dark little giggle and clicked his heels in delight.

"It's a real Kodak moment, Alonso, ol' pal. Now tell my pardner here what he wants to know so I can get started on the happy part, 'kay?"

Alonso shuddered and turned his head away, back to the dour wall of disapproving silence that was Batman.

"I know you won't believe this," said the defender of Gotham City, a real edge of weariness tingeing his voice as, behind Alonso, the Joker started to laugh, "but giving you up to him would actually hurt me far more than it would hurt you…"

**Gotham Marina, 5.32 a.m.**

Batman stalked down the stairs with the Joker's wrist clamped firmly in his hand. He couldn't believe it - a dead end so soon after a promising start.

_That name means nothing to me. That doesn't make sense. _

He became aware of the Joker's weight dragging on his arm.

"Joker, keep up."

_No-one but one of the big guns would go after the Joker. He's not a target for anyone else. Even the big crime families steer clear of him, he's far too unpredictable and dangerous for them. They leave him to me, secure in the knowledge that I'll remove him from their turf sooner or later, and while I'm dealing with him, I'm not paying any attention to their ordinary little crimes. _

_So it had to be one of the so-called super-villains. My money was on Ivy - the poisoning fits and she's currently on the loose. Plus, she hates him. This feels like a vengeance attack: it feels personal. _

_But I don't know this name at all. _

"Joker," he snapped, as his arm got dragged down for the sixth or seventh time. "I said -"

_Oh, hell. _

The madman had been dragging on his arm for the last few flights of steps. Batman had assumed that this was a new addition to the Joker's childish behaviour, but as he stopped now and looked back, he realised he might have been mistaken. In the dingy darkness of the stairwell, the Joker had dropped to his knees, lanky limbs folded under him, unmoving, just as he had fallen. His forehead was leant against the metal handrail, scruffy green hair hanging forward over his face. When Batman pulled on his collar to lift his head, the white face was hot and sheened with sweat.

_Damn. Seems the good doctor was right. He's weak. Much as I hate myself for even considering it…I must have pushed him too hard. Neither of us would ever want to admit that behind all this, we're still human. _

"Joker," he said, sternly. "Get up. Time to go."

To his surprise the madman swayed to his feet almost immediately, but his balance didn't sustain him: Batman lunged to catch him as he almost toppled over the handrail into the three-floor drop of the stairwell. With the Joker lolling bonelessly against him like a late-night drunk, Batman began to hurry down the last few flights.

_Have to get him out of here and put him somewhere secure until he recovers. _

The rain hit them hard as they emerged onto the street. A little way out in the docking channel, a late-night arrival was mooring up under the downpour, and occasional glimpses of moon flickered through the scudding clouds. Batman hustled his staggering captive through the rain, blinking away the water that was dripping into his eyes -

A blurring of raindrops in his vision kept him from anticipating the swift kick: the sudden loss of balance that resulted from the abrupt flare of pain in his kneecap made him momentarily clumsy. His gauntlet, slick with rain, was shoved from its grip on the thin wrist as the Joker crowed with laughter. The slosh of water in the harbour to Batman's left was suddenly very loud, and his thoughts, wise after the event, clamoured relentlessly in his head:

_I should have known, I should have known, I should have -_

Recovering fast, he turned in an alert crouch, the laughter ringing in his ears. The harbour seemed empty, save for the distant figure engaged in tying the painter to the dock.

_Where are you. _

The Joker's weight hit him square in the centre of his back, and he lurched forward sharply, determined to keep his feet. His boots skidded on the wet concrete, and with a lurch of alarm he felt his right heel skid out over the edge of the dock.

A blunt shove on his back that was the Joker pushing back and letting go, and his entire foot groped at nothingness. He lost his footing and fell, upper body smacking into the hard ground, fingers grasping to pull himself back from the brink.

The Joker, stood in the rain a few feet away with one hand on his thin hip, looked utterly unconcerned. "Ta-Ta," he smiled, blew a delicate kiss from his red lips with fluttering fingers, and then bounded forward to stamp on Batman's hands. The heels on the absurd shoes were weighted with steel, and Batman felt the protective gauntlet armour crumple painfully into his knuckles. His nerves instinctively spasmed, and he dropped into the water a few feet below with an undignified splash.

The water was shockingly cold, but not too deep this close to the harbour. Batman kicked off the wall and threw himself back up onto the harbour parapet, ignoring the sharp ache in his hands. He landed neatly, legs braced to hurl himself forward at his enemy, water spilling from him in rivulets.

The harbour was empty. The new arrival further down the dock, having moored his boat, was leaning on the rails, smoking and watching the dripping Batman with interest.

Batman pushed to his feet and made a swift sweep of the nearby streets, knowing already in his heart that it was a pointless task. The Joker was gone.

_If he's gone back to kill Alonso…no, he's not that stupid. He won't have stayed around here. _

_Or maybe that's what he'd want me to think…_

For one long moment that felt to him like an eternity, Batman stood under the relentless rain and tried, as he had done so many times in the past, to predict the unpredictable.

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------_

**_Review Responses:_**

_**Cyn Wraith:** Thankyou, and don't worry about the mix-up at all. I'm glad you're loving my Joker, and that you think his peculiar brand of humor fits in with the story. I am feeling much better, thanks for your good wishes, and the writer's block is in retreat. _

_**Nightmare1:** You have no idea how long I agonised over those Scoobydoo references, wondering if I was going too far. I'm so happy you liked them!_

_**giveGodtheglory:** Thankyou so very much:)_

_**E.A.V. :** heh, yeah, Joker lives to irritate Batman, I think. And no, I don't think we've seen the last of poor Ari Kelly..._

_**SpiderFreak:** Thankyou! I do like cocoa, so I had some of tbat and put some of my favourite music on, and once my antibiotics kicked in I began to feel like writing again. I hate it when I'm in themiddle of something and my ideas desert me. _

_**Dark-Lady-Devinity: **I think Batman will probably hate me for sticking him with Joker in this...I'm glad you liked it, and I hope this chapter explained what was going on at the end of the last one.._

_**meow:** Thankyou, I'm feeling a lot better. And I know what you mean, I can't help liking Joker, nasty little psycho that he is. _

_**Hades' Phoenix:** I hope you've managed to get a little sleep since you reviewed. :) Thankyou so much. Can't get enough of the evil bastard, eh? Sounds horribly familiar...I seem to have a serious jones for him at the moment and this story is fuel for the fire. _

_**Robster72:** Banter. I love that word. It's my favourite type of dialogue, too. _

_**Spectral Sereda:** :KJ hugs: I am so pleased you're still reading. You may recognise the middle section of this chapter, I think... :) And "believeable" is just about the highest praise any author could hope to get..._

_**chewie-2006:** Thankyou! Yes, Batman is having to deal with the criminal equivalent of a stroppy five-year-old...poor guy. :)_

_**Kelly Renee:** :KJ smiles: You're really too kind, thankyou so much. And look, I even managed a quick update! _


	9. Chapter 9

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 9**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: If anyone's interested, the picture that really started this whole story off (it depicts a scene from this chapter) can be seen at my DeviantArt account: the link's in my Author Profile._

**Above Gotham Plaza, 6.12 a.m. **

On the streets of Gotham, even the homeless and the junkies had found dry spots to hide in to wait out the storm and doze, in the hope that when they awoke there might be some sign of dawn in the waterlogged charcoal skies. On the rooftops, although she didn't know it yet, the hard part of Selina Kyle's night was only just beginning. She paused lithely on a ledge perhaps six inches wide over a drop of sixty feet, head raised, water spilling from her shining suit.

_I hate the rain. Why do I live here?_

She flung herself suicidal-fashion out over the drop, gloves springing lethal claws as she freefell. Her hands snatched at a fire ladder on the opposite building with barely a clang, and she descended with dignity to the street below.

The tarmac was awash: it was like stepping down into a shallow river. The storm drains roared with overspill to each side of her as she checked her belt pouch for the tenth time.

The microchip was still there. A night's work well done. Now for the tough part: getting it home and getting the information off it. Selina wriggled her shoulders in anticipation. Home. Mmm. Warm and dry.

But in the distance, a sound that made her turn…

_Someone crying?_

Catwoman cocked her head, listening above the battering and splashing of the rain. She took a long breath in and held it so that the sound of her own breathing didn't interfere. Yes. There it was, a low-level sound, several streets away if she was any judge. Soft crying? Someone hurt?

_Investigate?_

Cats are known for being naturally curious, but Selina was also capable of being naturally compassionate to those in pain. Like a shadow, she slid along the alleyways amid the hiss and spattering of water, until she could peer out into the dead-end street at the intersection of forty-six and third.

There was someone lying in a crumpled heap right down at the end, huddled against the wall. Someone extremely wet, who was still making that constant muttering sound that could be sobbing.

Selina, cautious, moved forward. The smell of rain overwhelmed any other scent in the alley, even the usual reek of refuse. The figure huddled against the brickwork did not move, face-down in a pool of water.

_Was that crying, or…_

Catwoman, mere metres from the fallen figure, took an instinctive step backwards, her top lip curled in disgust.

…_laughing. Oh, my God. _

The prone figure was the Joker. He was utterly soaked through with rain, the purple suit black with it. His green hair was dark and slick to his white face and his shoulders shuddered occasionally with pained giggling.

Selina stood quite still, and automatically looked upwards at the nearby buildings, scanning the ledges and rooftops for Batman.

No dark shadows were silhouetted against the neon glare of the streetlamps. No police sirens wailed out of the pre-dawn darkness. Just the unrelenting rain and the madman crouched before her on the sidewalk. The city at this hour was just beginning to wake up properly, delivery vans and commuters starting to move in the streets. It was still fairly quiet.

Catwoman's first instinct was to turn away and walk straight out of the alley, but something stopped her. A memory of being a child in the park, of seeing another child cut very badly by a big sliver of glass. It had been a bottle left behind by drunken partygoers crossing the park several nights previously, which had broken unseen in the long grass and lain there waiting to be discovered by an unwitting, innocent hand.

_How can I leave him here, free, an accident waiting to happen? It's lucky **I've** found him and not some poor stupid city girl…_

She padded forward and crouched close to the Joker, wary of a trap. A scrap of turquoise green poking out from under his arm caught her attention.

_He looks injured…what's that…?_

Lip still curled fastidiously, she hesitantly reached out a gloved hand and turned him over.

_A sling. A cast. Broken arm?_

The Joker groaned as his back slapped wetly into the puddle. The fingers on his injured left arm were gripping at his collarbone. Selina gave him a cursory glance, a once-over, just to check she wasn't going to have this proximity to him backfire on her. He lay still on his back as she rifled his jacket for the inevitable gun or vial of acid.

"All out of tricks today?" she said to him, when a search of the deep exterior pockets revealed nothing. "That's not like you."

_Not just injured. He's feverish. Tonight just gets weirder and weirder…_

She went for the inner pockets next, wanting to gag in revulsion at the feel of his toast rack ribs under the sodden shirt. He kept up a steady low murmur of non-verbal sounds throughout the procedure: some hysterical bouts of giggling, some whimpers of pain. As she turned out the shallow waistcoat pockets he broke out into a fit of coughing which seemed to only fuel his continued amusement. But there was no retaliation to her ransacking his clothes.

_Nothing. Huh. _

Catwoman pushed gracefully to her feet and took two small, delicate steps backward, regarding him coolly. The rain seemed to be getting harder, until it became an almost solid curtain of water around them both. At the mouth of the dead-end street a car drove past, throwing up a tall slew of spray.

The Joker coughed harder, because the water was getting into his mouth. He rolled onto his side and made an attempt to push his body upright on his one good arm. Catwoman snapped her whip out from its place around her waist and moved forward sharply, perching her full weight across his back to keep him pinned where he was crouched. The memory of that screaming child, covered in blood, being carried from the park by paramedics was vivid in her mind.

_Can't leave dangerous things lying around where innocents could get hurt by them…_

A motorcycle courier hummed past in a cloud of spray at the mouth of the intersection.

_But then, I'm a dangerous thing, too. _

She stood up from where she was leaning on him, curling the whip back into a neat coil, then bent fluidly and grasped at his collar.

**Gotham Streets, 6.03 a.m.**

"Alfred."

"Sir?"

The butler's voice over the car's intercom was clear and as fresh as if he'd enjoyed at least eight hours sleep and had made time for a healthy breakfast into the bargain. Sometimes Bruce envied the man's poise. _No matter what I throw at him, Alfred always seems ready for it. _

"Joker lost me at the marina."

A slight pause.

"Well, I'm sure you'll find him again, sir," came the reply. "He's six foot five and not exactly inconspicuous. It's the rather questionable tailoring."

"I _will_ find him."

Inside his head, Batman effortlessly squashed the flare of self-doubt as he had done so many times. His confidence in his own abilities had to sustain him. Without that poise, without that surety, there was nothing.

"I suppose it would be foolish of me to ask if you managed to attach one of your miniature tracking devices to the gentleman before he, ah, evaded you?" said Alfred's polite, cultured voice as Batman flipped a few switches on the car's dashboard. Panels whirred open.

"It would be foolish of you to ask, but more foolish of me to lie."

The small tracking screen that whirred open from just to the left of the steering column was black and empty. No flashing dot to indicate a trail to be followed.

"Ah," said Alfred, quite calmly, rather as if he'd just discovered a rogue speck of dust on a picture-rail. "Well, not to worry, sir. Problems like the Joker tend to rear their ugly heads quite often. He won't stay hidden for long, it's not in his nature."

Batman pushed the useless screen closed and rested his chin on one hand, thinking.

"Alfred, would you do something for me? Run a name through the Cave's computer. Sam Wright."

"Of course," the butler responded. "I assume this task takes priority over my pressing need to polish the silverware?"

The thin lips under the line of the cowl curled in a wry smile. "This is one time you can assume with impunity, Alfred."

"Duly noted. Good luck, sir. I'll be in touch."

Batman registered the tiny click that indicated the Manor connection had been terminated, then allowed himself one short thump of his battered gauntlets at the steering wheel.

_I must be getting stupid in my old age. Never underestimate him. Not even unconscious, not even if he's apparently **dead. **How often has he been considered dead, anyway? He's got more lives than a cat._

A van drove past the mouth of the side road where the Batmobile was parked, and offloaded a batch of newspapers to the sidewalk. CLOWN PRINCE IN CUSTODY, one headline read, above a familiar photograph of the Joker's soot-stained face. THE JOKE'S ON YOU, JOKER! exulted another, displaying an identical picture. More morbidly, a third offered LAST LAUGH? with a slightly different photo of the Joker huddled over in pain.

_Reliable Jim Gordon, as good as his word. Except I now have a real problem. If I can't find him before he does something flamboyant and dangerous, the real perpetrator of these crimes will be able to evade me. Not to mention the amount of people who could get hurt in the process._

**Gotham City, 6.32a.m.**

Catwoman cursed the Joker soundly and silently under her breath, and tried to adjust the way she was dragging him so that her shoulders didn't hurt so much.

_If I can just leave him somewhere conspicuous, like outside the courthouse or the police station…_

Frustrated, she drew back a booted foot to kick him in the ribs, then sighed and thought better of it.

_Wow, I'm just such a nice person. I can't even kick a dog when it's down. _

She got a better grip on his soaked, ruined clothes and dragged him a few more feet down the alley. He was incapable or unwilling to do anything to make her job easier, and was a surprisingly heavy dead weight.

"Congratulations," she hissed at him as she dug her claws into the yielding purple cloth, "you're even a pain in the ass when you're barely conscious."

This wasn't the way she had planned her night going, not at all. In her plan she'd have been home by now, teasing juicy titbits of data from this oh-so-insignificant little chip, probably with clean hair and a big mug of creamy hot chocolate.

_This outfit is most definitely evening wear only. Too fancy for the daytime. I don't really want anyone to see me come home…and certainly I don't want to be seen anywhere near this guy…_

The 'home' she currently had in mind was a dingy and cramped apartment on the west side. Moreston Block was well known for being a troubled area - countless council plans to regenerate the area had fallen by the wayside, and even the families placed there by the social workers tended to be wary of their neighbours. It was a place for the poor, the lost, the mean-spirited, and the criminal.

Selina liked it: no-one gave a damn if you came home at all hours of the night, and if you were wearing a cat costume it probably just meant you were a pretty expensive prostitute. And it was amazing the sheer volume of incidents that no-one saw around Moreston: over three hundred people lived there and yet the night the local street gang killed three members of a rival gang (and one of their own, by accident) no-one had seen or heard a thing.

Catwoman flattened herself against the wall and peered out onto Lincoln Street. The bakeries were open, the pervasive scent of new bagels and hot ovens spilling out into the dullness, and the small convenience store on the corner was changing shift. A yawning man in orange exchanged keys with another man who looked no less tired, and pointed to a delivery of newspapers lying bundled on the sidewalk. Catwoman glanced at the papers fleetingly, then double-took and stared with real alarm.

_Clown Prince in Custody…The Joke's On You, Joker…Last Laugh…?_

_Don't they recycle those headlines every time he escapes?_

She looked down at the untidy, crumpled figure whose collar she had so neatly scruffed in her hand. Definitely the Joker. There couldn't be any mistaking him…unless…

She crouched beside him and scrubbed hard at his white face with her hand, then at the lips. Makeup steadfastly failed to come off on her gloves. The green hair was green all the way to the scalp. Her fingers briefly traced the deep, scarred laughter lines that extended from the corners of the mouth all the way up into the sharp cheekbones.

She whipped her hand away as he suddenly snapped at her like a rabid dog. Slitted green eyes regarded her with all-consuming hatred.

"Uh-oh, too slow," the Joker reprimanded himself in a whisper, looking up at her with a twitching grin. "Let's play again, pussycat. It's no fair cheating. It's do as I say, not do as I do." Another lunge and snap, and Catwoman rapidly adjusted her grip to the back of his neck, out of range. She could see there was no real strength in him, as his head lolled loosely after every attempted bite and he wasn't even trying to get up.

_But sometimes even cornered, wounded rats will turn and fight the cat if they can't get away. _

Satisfied she wasn't going to suffer any immediate injury, she looked out again into the street. The sandwich boards leant up outside the store were proclaiming the same message now: the Joker's latest escapade was over. Batman had brought him to justice and the city was safe once more.

Catwoman wiped some rain from her face and looked down at her charge.

"Well, if that's true," she murmured, "what are you doing out here? Batman may have his faults, but he doesn't make mistakes about things like this. If he says he's got you, he's got you."

The Joker didn't answer. His eyes were closed again, and he appeared to be faltering on the edge of consciousness. Selina inwardly groaned - now she'd have to carry _all_ of his weight - and watched the first customers of the day buying their papers and stopping off for a chat on the way to work. People. Normal people, normal lives, people who wore suits and had desk jobs. People whose biggest concerns in life ran to how many calories were in a greek salad and whether Celebrity X was really dating Celebrity Y. How did it happen, this sudden, subtle shift? When did you wake up one morning and realise that not only did you have to worry about chipping your nail varnish, you also had to try and save the world in ways that normal people would never even know about…?

Selina regarded the collapsed form of her new biggest concern and felt very, very tired and alone.

_So now what the hell am I supposed to do?_

-------------------------------------------------------------------

_**Review Responses:**_

_**Nightmare1:** Wow, that's weird deja vu! That little section is actually one of the only bits of this story I previewed in my LiveJournal, months ago, before I started work on pulling this story together properly. As for whether Ivy's involved...well that would be telling... :)_

_**Dark-Lady-Devinity:** Thankyou! And yeah - there was Batman, giving himself a good mental dressing-down._

_**SpiderFreak:** Hee, thankyou. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter too._

_**meow:** It is certainly not a good thing - but luckily for Alonso, he seems safe for now at least!_

_**Kelly Renee:** I hope they were heebie-jeebies in a good way:P_

_**giveGod theglory:** Ouch indeed. He's tough, though, our hero._

_**LexLuthor13:** Heh, not even Batman can be utterly omnipotent. He's good, but he's not that good. I'm really happy you approve of my Joker (and yes, he can be very hard to do some days!) Thanks for adding to Favs!_

_**JuliTina:** Thankyou very much, and I'm very glad you found it too! Your compliments mean a great deal to me. I don't think you're twisted for finding that bit funny - but them I am a twisted Joker-fan myself, so I guess I'm not the best to judge._

_**robster72:** I'm sure those two won't be apart for too long (it's too much fun writing dialogue between them!)_

_**Cyn Wraith:** Gushing of praise is always welcome here. thankyou for your good wishes : I'm feeling a lot better now. There's a lot more intrigue to come hopefully. _

_**Farthingale:** :KJ pounces: As a picky English graduate I demand to be Noted about those things! I'm so glad you're enjoying it: after all, it's really for you I'm writing it, oh prize-winning person...and some days I disturb myself with how easy it is to write the ramblings of a psychopath, while other days I am tearing my hair out trying to get him right. :grins: You annotated your printouts! Wow, teacher, did I get an A:winks: I feel really important now...I have annotations..._

_**tdei:** Thankyou very much! I'm reallyhappy it has appeal even for someone who isn't a completely rabid fan of Batman. As for what that name means to Joker...hmmm...we shall see.. :evil chuckle:_

_And a special mention to **Shimotsuki **for the wonderful fanmail. Thankyou so much. _


	10. Chapter 10

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 10**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC comics.**

_Author's Note: Just got back from my holidays and have this new chapter to share with you. Hope you enjoy! On a side note, I'm overjoyed to see that I just got my 99th review for this story: thankyou all so much for being so kind and for continuing to read. Review Responses at the end of the chapter, as before. _

Alfred regarded the computer: the computer, with its usual silicon impassiveness, regarded him back. One lone screen glowed with life at the right-hand side of the console, and the massive screens above that the news reports had splashed across so vibrantly earlier were dark and dead.

"Wretched machine," Alfred muttered as he sat down in the vastly overdramatic high-backed chair in front of the shining machine, "and the very devil to dust, too."

Despite his outward animosity for it, the computer and Alfred actually got along quite well. People not aware of Alfred's somewhat unique skills base would probably have been quite surprised by the ease with which he interrogated the Batcave's massive database. The soft rattle of his fingers over the keys echoed up into the vaulted, endless roof of the cave, and the returned clusters of common bats rustled their wings dryly and prepared for sleep in the coming dawn.

It took him a little over twenty minutes to be sure that what the computer was telling him was true and not some elaborate digital misconception, and his expression maintained its usual carefully blank butler's mask as he punched up the code to connect to his master's car.

"Sir? I have some information for you."

**Gotham Plaza, 6.46 am. **

Batman was crouched immobile on his haunches in the relative shelter of a tattered restaurant awning. The eatery had been closed for over two months now: nobody had really wanted to pay fancy prices at a venue halfway down a narrow alley on the very furthest outskirts of the popular nightlife district. The remains of the specials boards hung, rotting, from each side of the peeling, navy-painted doors.

Batman extended a glove, carefully, and plucked at the aging paintwork,.

_Unless I've stumbled across the pitch of a beggar with a really expensive dye job…_

The three green hairs on his palm stirred in the damp wind.

_He was here._

He ran his hand over the door and eyed the concrete step below it. Something had recently brushed against the door, pulled loose a scattering of old paint which lay on the rain-darkened step like week-old wedding confetti.

_He ran in here, fell here, his shoulder scraped the door as he fell…I'm close. I'm close, and he's tiring. _

His belt bleeped once, rapidly and quietly. The car was paging him, telling him that he had a call coming in. Batman cast the green hairs to the wind and strode back up the street to where the Batmobile's sleek shape was parked.

"Ah, there you are, sir. For a moment there I thought something unfortunate had happened to you," came Alfred's utterly unruffled tones from the speaker.

_It already has, Alfred._

"I have some information for you," the butler continued, "however, I must say I hope it means more to you than it does to me, as it struck me as singularly opaque."

"Tell me."

His master's low, level tone checked Alfred's inclination to elaborate.

"The name Sam Wright is not listed in any of the likely sections of your database," he said, eyes flicking to the glow of the screen to his left which contained what seemed to Alfred to be a pitifully small amount of information. "There are twenty Sam, Samuel or Samantha Wrights in Gotham's telephone listings. None of them have any criminal record save one Sam Wright of 245 Mountbatten Avenue who was arrested for – ahem – soliciting twenty-three years ago. It was a first offence and there has been no recurrance. "

"Go on."

"Samantha Wright who now works in a meat processing plant on the industrial estate beyond the Island, was crowned Miss Minnesota in an apparently unheard-of landslide victory three years ago," Alfred went on dutifully. "There is an illuminating colour picture of her in the Gotham Star, shortly after she arrived here."

_A failed prostitute and a homecoming queen. Great. _"Is there more?"

"Indeed. It seems the young lady likes dogs, chocolate, the colour pink and abhors the environmental standpoint of the government on nuclear power – or did you mean more on any of the _other_ Sam Wrights?"

Sometimes Batman had the distinct impression he was being teased: sometimes he wasn't so sure. "Thankyou, Alfred."

"There is only one more Sam Wright who appears to be of any small note, sir." Alfred scrolled to the microfiche. "Sam Wright, of Kerr, Assizes & Wright, Tobacco and Gifts, 53 Lower Hart Boulevard. "

_The whore, the model and the tobacconist…whatever happened to the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker?_

"What about him?"

"He's dead, sir."

_Marvellous._

"Send everything over, Alfred. All the names and addresses and all the police and press records."

The screen to the left of the steering column flared into life as the file transfer began. Batman raised an eyebrow at the "illuminating colour picture" and returned to the list of names.

_Twenty people…all of whom are probably utterly innocent of anything to do with this situation. It may be an alias. Sam Wright. An ordinary name for an ordinary man. What criminal hasn't called himself Jim Jones or John Smith when questioned too deeply about his character?_

He found his eye drawn to the copied microfiche. The snippet was from the Gotham _Globe_, and was pathetic in its brevity. Mr Sam Wright (43) of Kerr, Assizes & Wright, found dead at his tobacco counter late yesterday afternoon. Police were not treating his death as suspicious. There was a picture of a slightly balding, smiling man holding a box of expensive cigars. Nothing unusual.

_Not treating his death as suspicious… _Batman rubbed at his brow with one finger. _This is ridiculous. _

The sound of a car backfiring loudly made the eyes under the cowl narrow abruptly. Smoke from the offending exhaust curled in choking streams around the corner ahead.

_Joker. I have to find him. _

A touch extinguished the screen, and the Batmobile swung out onto the main avenue, passing the stalled Porsche with a satisfied purr of its powerful engine.

**Moreston Block, 6.53a.m. **

Selina Kyle backed into the elevator on the second floor, two floors down from her apartment, and got in the way of the doors as they tried to slam shut.

_Funny_, she thought, as she by turns bullied and dragged the now conscious and giggling Joker into the elevator, _I never wanted to have children for exactly this reason. The little demons never do what you tell them and yet you've somehow appointed yourself their nanny for the rest of your life. Ugh. I feel dirty just having touched him. I need a bath. _

"What's new, pussycat? Woah-ohh-ohh…"

The Joker's voice, weak but beginning, to Selina's alarm, to strengthen, echoed tinnily in the confines of the metal box as he sang.

She peeped out into the corridor on her floor as the doors opened with a doleful chime. No-one. Thank God. There were three other flats on this side of the corridor besides hers: one belonging to an unsuccessful drug dealer, one to a widow, and one currently occupied by a trio of street children, the oldest of whom couldn't be more than thirteen.

"Pussycat, pussycat, you're so pretty, you're my little kitty…"

"Don't make me gag you. I don't even wanna touch you."

"Sweetcakes, you love me. Don't you ever watch those movies where the gal and the guy spend all but the last twenty minutes wanting to kick each other's cute lil' asses? You just know they're gonna get it together because - " the mad green eyes batted once, conspiratorially - "they hate each other. And we all know what that reeeeeaaally means…"

Catwoman folded her arms and glared at him as he leant against the dirty elevator back wall. If looks could kill, the Joker would have been going home in a pine box. "That does it. I'm hauling you out in the street and calling the cops."

"Oh, I don't think so."

He straightened abruptly, thin shoulders slamming back, skinny chest puffed out. Like a puppet whose slack strings have been taken up, the Joker unfolded with dreadful poise and grace, the hunched, painful posture fled. He tucked his own good arm across the sling, tilting his hips girlishly in conscious mockery of her, and Catwoman felt a sudden chill race along her neck and down her arms. One hand involuntarily twitched towards the grip of her whip.

"If you were going to do that, you'd have_ left _me in the street," said the Joker, and coughed, once. "Don't try and get smart with me, girl. I invented smart." He stepped forward, one step, and swayed a little on his feet. His voice dropped to a mock-seductive purr. "I'm here because you wanted me here…"

Memories of having stepped unwittingly into one of the Joker's heists early in her career flared in Selina's mind. She had been less confident, less knowledgeable. With her hands buried in the safe, the voice from the dark behind her had purred "What ho! Take a look, boys, I'm being robbed!" A crow of laughter. "How beautifully ironic. How delightfully droll. How saccharinely sweet she is."

He had to have been watching her for the entire time it had taken her to crack the safe. Two large men wearing identical, blankly benevolent grinning masks, had emerged from the darkness surrounding the safe and laid hands on her. She had fought, digging her claws into them and trying to throw them, but they were surprisingly strong and she had been taken by surprise. They dragged her, kicking and indignant, to the feet of one of the oddest-looking men Selina had ever hoped to never see.

She'd heard of him, of course. He was part of it all - the dark side of Gotham, the fantastical side she'd joined where all the most gruesome parts of genuine fairytales came true.

He was clicking his tongue loudly. "Naughty, naughty. That's _my _burglary you're burglarising, young lady."

Selina had hissed defiantly at him. "How the hell was I supposed to know? Let me go!"

"Oooh," the Joker had cooed, a delighted grin splitting his sharp face, "I like her. She's feisty."

The goons forced her to her knees in front of him: he had hunkered down to her level and tapped her on the nose with the head of his swagger stick. Even the cane's head was shaped like a grinning jester. "I likes a girl with spirit," said the Joker in a terrible British falsetto, and unzipped the front of her suit. Selina twisted in a mix of fury and revulsion as a purple gloved hand dove inside and extracted the large heart-shaped diamond she'd put there for safe keeping. "Well, look at that! So simple. And there was me expecting a booby-trap."

"That's mine, give it back –"

The heavy golden head of the cane had smashed into her face before the words were even out of her mouth. The vision in her left eye exploded in a bolt of black, little flares of sharp white agony dancing at the edges of her sight. She crumpled in the grip of the goons with a wail, clutching her face.

_He's blinded me he's blinded me he's…_

"Oh dear," she heard the Joker say. "I can't possibly keep a darling little one-eyed kitten. I just don't have the room, I'm out at work all the time, what would Animal Welfare say?"

With the vision in her right eye blurred and watery and the left already swelling shut, she had looked up as he knelt in front of her. The facets of the diamond gleamed as he held it up between both of them and pressed a loving kiss to its shining surface. "And I'm far, far too poor too feed it. It's not fair on the animal," he said, so close his breath brushed her face. "I know! This city is full of charming good citizens! Surely one of them will give my Fluffles a home."

Selina had got a good view of his lanky, purple-clad legs and flamboyant expensive shoes as he stood up and strode away, bouncing the diamond in one hand. "Boys. Let's do the right thing."

The expensive clothes were sooty and torn now, the trouser cuffs ragged and singed. As he stared her down, grinning, fever warring with lunacy for which would burn the brightest in his eyes, she wanted to spit at him. She wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him while she spoke the words that boiled through her brain:

_It took me over an hour to untie myself from the ropes your goons tied me with. I couldn't see at all out of that eye. And I climbed out of the cardboard box you'd left me in on the street corner and with my good eye I could see you'd written "Free Kittens. Lovably Crippled" on the side in Magic Marker. _

_I hated you so much…I hated you because you frightened me and you made me feel small and helpless in a way I'd sworn was in the past for me. But you didn't know, and if you had known you would have laughed, you would have found it so delicious…_

"I don't want you anywhere near me, Joker," was all she said, her tones cold and bitter. "I just don't like to see shit lying on the sidewalk where anyone could step in it. I saw what you did to the city tonight."

_And once I get hold of Batman, you're going to be out of my life so fast…_

"There you go again," admonished the Joker, yawning theatrically with one white hand raised to his wide red mouth, "thinking you're clever. But no gold star for you today and someone _else_ gets to take home the class stick insects for the holidays."

Then, as if reading her mind, he added: "And when you speak to your darling letter-jacketed jock, he'll tell you. Batsy knows I'm innocent. I've been with him all night, sweetheart, sorry to have to break it to you. And it was _fabulous_."

Selina glowered at him. "You're lying."

"Well, all right. Maybe it wasn't fabulous. I was just trying to save Bat-boy's ego from shrivelling up and dying. Poor dear. He does have such a self-esteem problem." He grinned at her shocked expression. "I blame the parents."

"Innocent?" Selina exploded.

"Pure as the driven slush." The Joker held up two fingers mockingly and stuck out his tongue. "Scout's honour."

As the rain finally showed signs of easing outside and the rattling of water on the window became less distinct, Catwoman watched the Joker lean against her apartment wall and cough into a green hankerchief, and wondered why in the name of all that was great and good she half-believed him.

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_Review Responses:_

_**Dark-Lady-Devinity:** Thankyou! Yeah…I don't think Catwoman's going to top this one for a while in the weird stakes. _

_**LexLuthor13:** Ah, The Long Halloween. A bit of a classic in my opinion. I've always liked the duality of Catwoman, the criminal turned heroine. I'm very glad you approve of my depiction. _

_**Cyn Wraith:** Oh, he's wily enough to look after himself, I think, at least for a while! Hope you enjoyed the latest chapter. _

_**Robster72:** I think you and Batman will both be very glad when things start to get a bit clearer! I'm truly happy you think my style is readable, thankyou. _

_**Spectral Sereda**::KJ hugs: You always know just the right things to say to make this amateur feel like she's doing she's created something magical. Thankyou so much…you have no idea how much your feedback means to me. _

_**giveGodtheGlory:** I'm glad you liked that bit…it was one of my favourite moments in that chapter too. Poor Selina indeed…she has a hard night's work ahead!_

_**Nightmare1**: Thankyou for the compliment on the picture::KJ hugs: I think she may be regretting her choice to take Gotham's finest fruitloop under her wing right about now…_

_**Meow:** Catwoman got a brief mention in an earlier chapter as a teaser, but I'm very glad to bring her in now as a major player. She's always been one of my favourites. _

_**Kelly Renee:** You're too kind. I'm just happy to share whatever small talent I have with people who appreciate it. And yes, poor J is being pulled around like a chew toy at the moment. Be ready for when he gets sick of it… ;)_

_**Darqx:** Hello::KJ grins: Thankyou for such a lovely and generous review, and thankyou for visiting from DA! And yes…it amused me while I was writing to see Joker almost dependant on his enemies and rivals as he dragged about the city. I'm proud to make a story junkie out of you::bows:_

_**Killinjoke:** Hello! Your penname indicates you're either very keen on the same graphic novel as I am, or you really like the band… Anyhow. I just want to say, your review made me smile all day. Amazing how one simple line can say so much. :KJ hugs: thankyou. I hope Christmas continues for you here…_

_**Wiley21:** Thankyou very much! Characterisation's one of my greatest concerns when I write. I'm very happy you like it and I hope you enjoyed this last chapter._

_**Loserville:** That's a great compliment you've paid me there, thankyou very much! I hope you like the chapters to come just as much. _


	11. Chapter 11

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 11**

_**Author's Note: I think this story has about two more chapters left to run, and you've now been kind enough to give me over 100 reviews. I'm so happy. Thankyou! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. **_

**Lower Hart Boulevard, 6.54 am.**

The little shop on the corner still had "Kerr, Assizes and Wright" painted above the door in faded gilt lettering, but the sandwich boards outside looked newer, and had the name Rubenstein printed in blue caps. There was scaffolding covering the left window, Batman noted, and half of the red paintwork had been covered with blue.

_All it needs is a - there it is…_

The small yellow cardboard square was tacked carefully to the glass panel in the door, and read "Under New Mannagement!" in careful marker pen lettering. It was slightly faded by the sun, indicating that the new owner, however lax his spelling, had been in possession for some time.

Batman folded his arms and watched as the roller blind inside the shop was drawn up: waited patiently as the protective metal mesh covering the window displays was rolled back. A hand flipped the sign on the door over from "Closed" to "Open ". The windows were a glittering array of glass jars. Like many tobacconists, the shop also sold old-fashioned sweets. Humbugs, sherbet packets, liquorice…Batman narrowed his eyes at the small pile of "Hilarious Joke Sweets! Make Your Friends Froth At The Mouth! Turn Your Tonge Black!" in one corner of the window.

The door opened with a chime from the inside, and a young man came out, carrying a stand of walking sticks and umbrellas, which he placed carefully against the right-hand window.

"Mr Rubenstein?"

The sticks overbalanced with a clatter, and the young man yelped as the voice spoke seemingly just behind his left ear.

"N-no. That'd be my father. He's sick today - flu." His shock over, Mr Rubenstein Junior seemed enthralled rather than terrified by his visitor. "Hey, he'll be sorry he missed this!"

"How long has your father owned this business?" Batman asked, mentally preparing himself to dodge questions like "So, where's the Batmobile? Does it have a Bat-cup holder? Do you make all those cool gadgets yourself?" that normal people seemed to feel obliged to ask on these occasions.

"Oh, about a year. People sure smoke a lot - we've just got enough profit to start on the refurbishment."

"Did you know anything about the previous owner?"

Rubenstein Junior mused over this for a moment, biting his lip. "Not much. Dad said we were lucky to get it, even though it was expensive. Came on the market just after we moved here."

"Did you ever meet the previous owner?" Batman pursued. He reprimanded himself internally for chasing this hopeless lead at all, when the Joker was still at large on the streets of his city. But the little shop had been within the network of streets that a weakened madman might possibly have reached…

"I didn't. Dad did. Once. When they were signing all the legal papers and everything? He said she was a nice quiet lady - hey, what's this about, anyway?" He stopped biting his lip and grinned, revealing a missing tooth. "Is our shop gonna be on TV? Am I a witness or something? Hey -"

Batman left the excited shouting behind him as he stalked back along the boulevard.

_A nice quiet lady…_

"Alfred," he said, stabbing the transmitter as he swung himself into the driver's seat.

"Sir?"

"The dead shopkeeper. Did he have any family?"

**Moreston Block, 7.16am**

Selina Kyle ducked, and the knife neatly clipped the pointed tips of the ears on her cowl.

Innocent of the bombings or not, the Joker was not taking kindly to her suggestion that he would be kept with her until Batman could be contacted to claim him. His injury did not seem to hamper him: he had already used the broken arm to hit her with (they had both given a two-second yowl of pain over that one) and Selina was continually cursing her decision to try and snare him with the whip. The end of the flailing leather cord had wrapped smartly around the arm in the sling, which the Joker had looked at in annoyance and then grabbed hold of the whip. His first pull had come as a surprise, and had lost her the advantage of balance. His second pull left her only two options: lose the whip and keep her feet, or vice versa. She had abandoned the whip. "Whoops! Pussy nearly fell down the well!" her opponent had laughed, as he unwrapped it from his arm and cracked it, but after two failed tries and managing to bloody his own lip with it, he had used it to snare the knife-block in the kitchen before hurling it into the fridge.

Now he stood in front of her, breathing hard and raggedly, with her biggest carving knife in one hand and, for some reason, a pastry brush held limply in the fingers poking out of the sling.

Selina found herself feeling oddly more threatened by the pastry brush. She feinted left, and he dodged backwards, not forwards, so her whirling kick missed him by a clear foot. There wasn't a great deal of room to move in the kitchen of her apartment, and she caught her calf a glancing blow on the work surface as she drew back from the kick.

"Give it up, idiot, even I can tell you're sick."

"I am _not_," came the affronted reply. "They call it 'psychiatrically challenged' these days. I've got a file and everything with it written on. My lawyer says if they use the "s" word I can sue them for mental trauma and discriminatory behaviour."

"I meant "ill" , dumbass." She sidestepped warily, trying to figure out the best way to get past him. He sidestepped too, aping her with an ease that irritated her. He'd certainly recovered in a hurry. From the near-coma state he'd been in when she dragged him here, he'd made practically a miracle…

…recovery.

_I dragged him here. I took him off the street. Had to carry him over some of the way because he was unconscious. Brought him here, where no-one would ever think of looking for him, especially Batman_.

He grinned at her and beckoned with the knife. Light spilt along the blade and gleamed from the point. "Penny for 'em, sweet thing."

"You bastard," she hissed, for one impossible moment angrier at herself than she was at him.

_He knew what he was doing all along. I thought I was helping the people of this city - all I was doing was buying him some time. _

"Oh," said the Joker, flapping the green hankerchief about like a maiden aunt with the vapours. "Oh my. I do feel quite weak. Nurse! Nurse! My smelling salts!" The maiden aunt persisted for another moment: then he turned a dazzling, vicious grin on her, foolishness fled and replaced by perverted intensity. "Why the world are you looking all cutely shocked and appalled? Don't worry, you're not the first one who fell for it. Batsy did too, and he _did _end up in the well." A slow lascivious widening of the grin. "And honey, you can rifle my pockets anytime."

He started to move, backing slowly towards the main door of her apartment with the knife held out before him. Selina tensed, her gut still clenched in disgust at his words and her own stupidity. She prepared to use one of her two foolproof methods of disarming a knife-man, now that she had a little more space than her tiny, cramped kitchen in which to move.

_One: kick to the wrist. Numb the nerves, he drops the knife. Two: go for the wrist while kicking him in the groin. _

"Don't even think about it," the Joker warned, still backing up. He was almost within reach of the door handle. Just as Selina was expecting him to half-turn and undo the latch - the perfect moment, she thought, to launch her attack - he didn't. Instead, the hand holding the knife whipped up to hug his own throat, shining blade pressed into the jumping bulge of his adam's apple. "If you try anything, I swear I'll kill myself!."

The unexpectedness of it stopped her in mid-thought - enough time for her brain to say _huh? He's crazy! _Before following it up with _well, naturally, and he's crazy enough that he might just do it…_

"I'll do it!" the Joker shouted, the fingers of his wounded arm already cleverly at work behind his back, tinkering with the latch. "Don't come near me, Officer! Think of the children!" He paused, grinning, his mouth a wide red gash above the shining steel of the carving knife. "Or at very least, think of the cleaning bill."

_The hell with this. _

Selina's moment of confusion passed in the blink of an eye: she leapt as the latch clicked open. The Joker, giggling, sprang out nimbly into the hall, inches ahead of her.

His purple shoulder slammed into another: a pale, thin woman in a tatty woollen coat had been walking up to her own apartment, 17, which was just across from Selina's.

Finishing her pointless leap, Catwoman stopped dead, all her desire to continue the fight drained at the sight of that innocent, startled face as her neighbour backed away from the Joker.

"Well, looky here," grinned the Joker. "Someone new for the party! Come on down, lady, your numbers have come up."

_Alison. Alison, run! _Selina urged silently.

**Streets of Gotham, 7.16 a.m.**

"Sam Wright, deceased," Alfred's voice recited patiently as Batman listened. "Parents still alive, located in Ohio. Survived by his widow, Alison Wright (thirty-one), and one child, Josephine Wright, six. One dedication in the Globe, the week before the funeral."

Batman closed his eyes briefly: the sound of the butler's voice had the air of a church sermon. "Samuel Richard Wright, loving father and pillar of the community. Cruelly taken from us before his time. Jo misses her daddy. No flowers by request. 10.00 a.m. service."

_An everyday tragedy. _

Batman couldn't claim he remembered it, although a dozen similar memorials came clearly to mind. There were just too many. Too many faces, surrounded by the words ordinary people come to dread: _cruelly, tragedy, widow, accident, shooting, mindless…_

_The words my life is never without. The words_….Batman opened his eyes and glared at the windscreen as the rain coursed down. _The words I wouldn't be living this life without. _

"Sir?"

Alfred's tone had that slightly worried edge that Batman recognised from his younger days.

_Survived by his widow…survived…_

"I'm all right, Alfred."

_Maybe I'm not the only one whose life was never the same after it was touched by those words_. The Batmobile's engine roared back into life. "Get me Mrs Wright's address."

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_**Review Responses:**_

_First of all another big thankyou to **Shimotsuki** for another lovely fanmail. I'm sorry I didn't have the time to e-mail you in reply. _

_**LexLuthor13 **– Heh, that's OK. Most people tend to assume I'm a man until they find out otherwise. I'm glad you picked out that line – it was one of his I was most pleased with from that chapter. I could almost hear his voice as I was writing. I hope this chapter answered a few of your questions about Sam Wright…and the whip! (plus, I see you're a Star Wars fan too – C3PO always amused me…)_

_**Robster72 **– Thankyou, I worry about my detail. I always enjoy writing dia,logue more so the fact I'm getting enough detail in is great to hear. The Joker always needs to amaintain his menace. It's part of what makes him such a lovely paradox. Hope you lied this chapter!_

_**Dark-Lady-Devinity** – hee, well, I hope the mystery is starting to unfold now. "An innocent Joker tops the weird list.." yeah, that's why it's so much fun to write! Thankyou for reading, it means a lot. _

_**Cyn Wraith** – Here ya go, you got some revelations. And no, as you can see, Joker's starting to feel suddenly a lot better (look out Gotham…) It's wonderful that my very first try at a mystery story has managed to intrigue even a non-mystery fan. Hope you enjoy!_

_**Nightmare1** – Yes indeed. If she wasn't before, she sure is now! _

_**giveGodtheglory **– Hah::KJ giggles: Duct tape. It has many and varied uses, but I can see many uses for it in Joker's case…_

_**killinjoke **– Glad to hear it, I love that one very much too. Apart from drawing the J-man, I love writing for him the best. _

_**SpiderFreak **– You're too kind, thankyou! No, I'm not a professional, and I never formally learn to write anywhere. I read a lot when I was young, and I still do. I think I started writing when I was about 12. I guess any small skill I may have must just be practice. _

_**Farthingale -** :KJ grins and hugs: I loves my acute state of ruling, I do. I want that phrase put on a T-shirt. Of course Bats is an extra in this story! How could he not be, when Joker's on the stage? _

_You were right to be suspicious about that name, weren't'cha? More about that to come in later chapters. Second guess all you like – half the time I didn't know myself where this was going, so anything you might think is clever is probably just a happy co-inkydink. :grin: and I have to admit to having made myself laugh over that caption. Sad, aren't I? _

_**Wiley21** – thankyou very, very much! That's a wonderful compliment. I'll have to go read some of your stuff sometime, too. _

_**Meow **– Alfred is just fabulous for sarcasm. Understated where Joker is marvelously overstated, Alfred is a writer's dream. Plus, my beta-reader told me off for telling a booby joke. :snigger:_

_**Chewie-2006** – Thankyou! The flashback was a lot of fun to write, as it gave me a crack at more classic Joker dialogue. Hope you enjoyed this chapter too. _


	12. Chapter 12

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 12**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics.**

_Author's Note: It's taken me about a month to finish this chapter, and I have no idea why! I hope you're still out there reading. Review responses at the end of the chapter as always. _

Outside room 17, Moreston Block, Selina suddenly realised that, bad as things were, there was something far worse happening that she had absolutely no control over.

The Joker grabbed Alison by the throat with a coquettish smile. "Lucky you, sweetheart, you won today's grand prize. A new car, twenty thousand smackeroos and a free trip to kingdom come." He laughed.

The woman, her threadbare coat rumpled in his white grip, was not struggling. Selina tried to lock eyes with her, wanting to give her hope, wanting to at least let her know she wasn't alone.

But the woman wasn't looking at her. Her eyes, looking massive in her thin, pale face, were fixed unerringly on the madman.

_And that's the worst part, right there, _Catwoman thought as she ran through hundreds of possible outcomes to this scenario in her mind. _She's looking at him, and it's almost like she doesn't see him. It's like she doesn't feel the knife, the grip on her neck, doesn't hear the laughter that must be deafening in her ears. It's almost…_

"What d'ya say, dear?" the Joker cooed, swinging her round and bending her over his skinny arm in a perverse parody of courtship. "Let me take you away from all of this."

"Let her go," Selina snapped, finding her voice at last through the blossoming sense of unreality that was threatening to swamp her.

…_almost as if she isn't afraid of him. _

"Don't mind her," said the Joker in hushed funereal tones, pressing his red mouth very close to Alison's ear. "She and I have some history together. She never forgave me for forgetting to pick up her mom after that traumatic ingrown toenail surgery. No, she and I just weren't meant to be. So sad, too bad." He wiped away a crocodile tear with the fingers poking out from the end of the somewhat battered sling.

"Joker, let her go." Selina cringed inwardly_. Look at me, the heroine_. "You can…let her go, you can take me instead."

"Tragic really," sighed the Joker, "her little girlish heart can't bear to see me with another woman." He shifted his grip on Alison roughly, getting a better grip. "Out of sight, out of mind? Toodles!"

He began to back away down the corridor, swiftly, the woman's cheap heels scoring marks across the battered linoleum as he dragged her with him. Selina watched impotently, wishing that the noise would bring the drug dealer out of his room, someone, anyone…

The knife bit a tiny nick into Alison's neck and she never made a sound. Her feet vanished around into the stairwell with two tiny clattering sounds as they caught the door-frame, and Selina leapt forward as soon as the door began to swing shut.

"If I hear you pussy-footing down these stairs after me," sang the Joker's voice, sounding slightly echoey in the stairwell as Catwoman stuck her head through the door, "I'll slit her throat from ear to ear..and then down _'ere _as well…"

Selina turned in a whisper of sleek black and vanished from the doorway.

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…_

The elevator wasn't coming fast enough.

_Hear me coming after you, Joker? How good's your hearing, can you hear the elevator bell?_

She stabbed at the call button again, knowing it was pointless, but the pent-up energy inside her demanding some release. The decrepit mechanism groaned as the elevator rose. First floor…_second floor, Christ, why did it have to have been in the lobby!_

Frustrated, Catwoman turned again. _I'm thinking like a normal person. Can't. Won't. Apartment. Window….be in the opposite alley before he even leaves the block…_

Behind her, the door of room 17 went _click_.

"Bad night."

It wasn't so much a question as a statement. Selina's shoulders slumped, partly in relief and partly in annoyance.

_Batman. _

**Gotham General Hospital, 7.47 a.m. **_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

Only 40 minutes left until I get to go home after what surely counts as the weirdest night of my life.

I watch CNN in the break room with Dave and Nicky, the guys from the path lab. The news is full of pictures of the Joker, my secret patient. There's even a little documentary about him, things he's done, people he's killed. I want to say something as the guys talk, because the news is saying things that aren't quite true.

But I said I could keep a secret, and I can.

Path lab. Yeah, that was a weird one, too, adding to the night's weirdness. The Joker's illness. Looked like flu, I'd thought, like the real bad kind we get here in winter. The blood scan had come back negative for anything like meningitis or septicemia.

Then I saw on the news that one of the places went up in flames tonight was Amway, and something clicked in my head.

We'd been expecting a delivery from Amway tomorrow night. One hundred cases of flu vaccine, shipped direct, just in time for the seasonal rush - and one small refrigerated case for the boys in the basement.

The basement here creeps me out a little, even more than the vegetable ward. It's like a nuclear plant, full of people wearing containment suits and masks and picking up tiny tubes with gloves and tongs.

They'd been expecting a new kind of flu vaccine down there. A better one, Dr Winthorne said, a strong one. Highly experimental. Not even past the first stage of development. Apparently it was a big deal, the fact that we got to develop it first, but then if I'd been really excited by germs at med school I'd've majored in biological sciences, so I'd just smiled politely and agreed with him that it was really something.

The Joker had been covered in soot and shards of glass when he'd been brought to me. The smell of smoke had been all over him, in his hair, his ruined suit.

So I sat and stared blankly through the sports report (the Gotham Knights had lost for the first time this season, but right then I just didn't care) as my mind considered the possibilities of being caught in the middle of a bio-chemically loaded explosion while one's body was weakened with sedatives and possible starvation…

I wondered if Batman was still puzzling over this, and if I should tell him what I thought had happened. But how the hell do you get in touch with the man in the cape if you have no bat-signal? It's not like he has his cellphone number pinned up next to 911 in call boxes. He is not the fourth emergency service. He's a shadow, a ghost, a legend: probably to get his attention without a damn great halogen lamp you need to sacrifice a black turkey under the full moon while waving a -

Christ, what was that?

**Gotham General Hospital, Emergency Room, 8.05a.m.**

The hospital's automatic door, sprung from its runners by the impact, made a sad little creaking sound as it struggled to remain in place despite being bent around the fender of a white pick-up. There was that single moment of stunned inactivity that follows a shock event, then hospital staff were rushing forward, the nurse from triage, the patients who could move -

Steam and smoke rushed up in a biting cloud from under the wrecked pickup's hood, filling the room with an ugly haze. People began to cough, and from the ceiling the fire sprinklers sprang into life, dousing the hospital lobby area in a fine spray of droplets.

"Is everybody all right?" shouted one of the interns, arm up to shield her eyes as the smoke began to clear. There was a rattling noise and then a clang as the driver's door of the ruined pickup hit the floor in one twisted piece.

The Joker stepped out of the haze like the iceberg looming up in front of the Titanic, his grin as bright as ice and his eyes red with fever and smoke. One thin arm was locked in a stranglehold around the throat of a pale, ash-blond woman, her only sign of life being her constant, frenzied blinking.

"I would like to register an emergency," he purred. "I'm told this is the right place to have one…"

**Gotham Streets, 8.05 a.m. **

Catwoman ran a gloved finger over the loose restraint buckles on the Batmobile's seat and gave them grudging approval. The engine of the car hummed against her knees. It was rather cramped.

"This thing wasn't built for taking a girl to the drive-in, was it?"

He didn't answer her.

"Are you angry with me?"

_Stupid question. He hasn't spoken a word to you since he almost dragged you out of the block. Not that he ever -_

"Why did you take him in?"

Selina looked up at the driver's cowled face. Batman was intent on the road, and his eyes were hidden in shadow. His very tone, flat and uninflected though it was, irritated her.

"Why isn't he already _in_?" she snapped. "That's what the papers think!"

No answer again.

"Oh, Batman," she said, her irritation turning into amusement and the desire to tease. "Don't tell me you put him back inside and he escaped again in the space of a few hours?" She crossed her legs with difficulty in the confined space and gave her swinging top foot a kick of glee. "You're slipping."

"He never escaped."

Selina was busy trying to think of a good retort to that when the Batmobile took a sharp hairpin left at its driver's command. She was about to make a sharp comment about safe driving, when the cause of his abrupt change of route caught her eye. Above the city, into the clearing skies of morning after the rain, a plume of smoke was rising.

**Gotham General Hospital, 8.11 a.m. **_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

It sounded one of the orderlies had let go of their trolley - a shattering of glass, a fall of metal to the ground. It was two floors up, in the ER, and the sound was muffled, so it could have been anything, really, anything or nothing.

Until the fire alarms began to ring.

I could hear the staff in the canteen two rooms away begin to down tools and turn off ovens: I could hear feet running above and below me. A fire in the hospital was a serious thing. About five months ago one of the day janitors set off the sprinklers smoking in the morgue. We had five fire engines surrounding the place in about ten minutes flat and the poor guy went as pale as one of the stiffs when they caught him.

He was fired, of course, and the papers had a field day. We missed a couple of law suits from outraged family members whose dearly departed were lying in the cold drawers by barely a whisker. Strange…people can handle the idea of morgue humour, but the thought of cigarette ash on the body's uncaring skin drives them crazy…

In a moment of quiet as the echoes of running feet began to die away, I heard it , and even as I moved, feet taking me automatically towards the fire exit, I froze inside, the hairs all over my body springing to attention.

The laughter. Oh god, the laughter.

I think I'll hear it forever whenever I lie back at night and there's a lull in the traffic outside: I'll hear it when I find a quiet moment to step outside into the dawn for a smoke.

Oh god, oh god, I hope I live through this, even if I have to hear that laughter in my dreams. He's come back.

-----------------------------------------------------

_**Review Responses:**_

_**LexLuthor13 -** :KJ chuckles: I guess some people in Gotham read too many comic books and think superheroes are very cool, so meeting one is no more disturbing than going to a comic convention. And yeah, I was happy with that little piece of Joker-0-drama. He does make me laugh. _

_**Dark-Lady-Devinity** – Yes, indeed they are. :smiles: It may turn out to be 3 chapters. I'll have to see how carried away Joker gets…_

_**giveGodtheglory** – He's perpetually having fun, I think. :watches Joker get wapped and giggles: Ah, don't complain, you green-haired idiot, you deserve it. _

_**Eatone** – That's a very great compliment. I'm really pleased that my writing can make you happy! I agree, Joker is an amazing villain, and I'm constantly worried I won't live up to his comedy standards. ;)_

_**Cyn Wraith** – Thankyou::KJ hugs: I hope this chapter was up to standard. _

_**Nightmare1** – Yes indeed, the mystery will all be over very soon – I just hope it doesn't disappoint!_

_**Killinjoke** – Thankyou! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. _

_**Meow **– I don't think I can ever stop writing – the characters get into my head and bully me until I continue. :D Thankyou for the wonderful encouragement. _

_**Robster7**2 – Thankyou! I love little details. Especially if it involves light, it's one of my favourite things to describe. _

_**Asano **- :KJ smiles: Thankyou so much for reading. Seeing as you answered your own Leslie question…I'll move on to continuity. No, it's not anywhere particular, although probably after "Death in the Family" and before "Killing Joke" and certainly way before "Hush". I certainly didn't have anywhere specific in mind..I just started writing and it played out the way it played out. ;) I hope you enjoyed reading it. _

_**SpiderFreak **– "Story board" …I am so happy it feels like that to you. It's how it looks in my head, you see, while I write. It may be 3 chapters….who can tell. :D I may get carried away._

_**Operameg123 **– Heh, yes. I love that graphic novel;….it's so clever, well written, and the art is beautiful too. Try not to take too many cities (you might put Joker's nose out of joint!) – I'll update as fast as I can::KJ looks shifty: To tell the truth….sometimes I channel him too…._

_**Farthingale **- :KJ bounces and glomps: More annotations, you clever person you. I have no idea about "sweets"…maybe one of my American readers can enlighten me. :) I have taken very careful note of your corrections (in red pen with a note that says "can do better") and will go and edit when I have some time! Aside from that, I'm very glad you liked my little J characterizations – I've always thought if I can please you, the ultimate coulro, I can please anyone. And yes…he is rather impish…oh dear, now I've had a vision of a green-haired Santa's helper and the presents are NOT for ages three and up…_

_**Foxdude33 -** :KJ bows, almost embarrassed: That is a wonderful thing to say. I was so pleased when I read your review. (Only I'm sure your story isn't anything like dust….I'll have to go read sometime…)_


	13. Chapter 13

**THROWAWAY CARD **

**Chapter 13**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: I'll now be answering all my reviews through FFnet's funky new reply system! If this chapter reads badly, it's because I finished it in a lack of sleep moment. _

**Gotham General Hospital, 8.13 a.m. **_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

Maybe it makes me a bad doctor - y'know, not concerned enough about the welfare of others? But my first thought was purely selfish.

Why me, Lord?

I can hear above me now the wailing of the alarms, and I want to run, like the rest, run to help evacuate the relevant wards. But I can't. I can't help it. I'm scared of what I may find when I go out there.

The Joker is back in my hospital, and I can't for a moment imagine he's feeling like making a donation or patting some cancer kids on the head.

He must have come back for me. Angered by my treatment of him, perhaps? He's crazy, it could be as simple as the fact that he didn't like the colour of my tie and he's decided to show me the error of my fashion sense. You cannot predict what will make a madman turn on you. I had a friend once called Jack, back at my old hospital, who specialised in working with mental patients. He was really good at it, too, made friends of them and made real progress with one guy. Guy thought he was Abraham Lincoln reincarnated, amongst other little delusions (unless Mr Lincoln had a habit of running down the corridors with his pecker out that I hadn't heard about). One day I came in to work and heard Jack got knifed by his patient. He never walked again. Turns out Mr Lincoln took exception to Jack's moustache, which the poor guy had worn for years with no problems, and stabbed him during a session with a knife no-one knew he even had.

I make my decision and run from the canteen. I head away from the lobby, where the crisis is obviously concentrated, and down, heading for the most out-of-the-way place I can think of. I figure I can hide out in the vegetable ward until the cops get here and take him down. The sounds of screaming and sirens are fading with every step I take.

The coma ward is almost peaceful as I push open the doors, the lighting subdued with the pale grey dawn light filtering through behind the heavy curtains. There are eight beds: one empty now Mr Sampson has left us, the rest full with their still, silent occupants. The duty nurse is not at her station, and far from being angry at her for leaving her post, I'm glad, I'm actually glad. Good for her. She's better off out of all this.

I head for the bed at the furthest end of the room, the one with the little girl lying in it, and I hunker down against the wall, the reek of disinfectant and fresh linen in my nose.

It's gonna take a long time for my body to calm down. I try to concentrate on the regular bleeping of the monitors to slow my heart rate. My breathing sounds so loud - if anyone walks in they'll hear me long before they see me in the dimness. But why would anyone walk in? The don't evacuate the veg ward unless the fire breaches the fire doors on the two floors above, and that ain't gonna happen, right? Right?

So I sit against the wall and try to work out why I'm more afraid of a single mental patient than I am of being burnt alive.

**Streets of Gotham, 8.15am**

Police cars screamed past in the neighbouring streets as Batman wrestled his car through an improbably tiny gap between two waiting juggernauts.

"Mmmm," Selina murmured with interest. "Police. We can slow down a little now, can't we? The police will keep him busy until we get there."

"For both our sakes, you'd better hope they don't," came the reply, and the Batmobile shot down the straight alongside the river like a bullet.

"Why in the world not?" Catwoman enquired, bored and flicking the loose restraint straps in her gloved hand. She was favoured with a tiny glance from the shadowed eyes beneath the cowl.

"Because police have guns."

Catwoman made a rude noise. "So? I hope they shoot the bastard. He's as crazy as a rabid mutt, he should be put down."

Batman swung the car into a tiny car park adjoining the back of a video rental store, and shoved open the driver's door, sweeping out into the filthy street without a backward glance. Catwoman narrowly made it out of her side of the car before the formidable locking and armouring mechanisms on the Batmobile engaged with a series of clicks and whirs. "Why are you so concerned about him all of a sudden?"

Batman didn't bother to turn round to answer her, and broke instead into a run. He could smell the tang of smoke, now, and had picked up on a few shrill, distant screams. The answer he hadn't given was pounding hard inside his head: _because I prefer the Joker when he doesn't have easy access to guns…_

**Gotham General Hospital, Emergency Room, 8.17am**

"What's that you say, dear?" the Joker asked his silent, staring hostage with a dedicated, serious frown. "You want to see a doctor?" He gripped her head and wobbled it up and down in a parody of agreement. "Well, honey, your ever-lovin' Joker has brought you to just the right place. It's Doctors R Us here. Take your pick. Girl doctors, boy doctors, Doogie Howsers, Dr Phil, Dr Ruth…or Dr Kelly." He turned his dazzling grin upon the huddled triage staff and their patients in front of him. "Doctor Kelly! Paging Doctor Kelly, we have an emergency…"

The kitchen knife abruptly flicked away from Alison Wright's throat to waggle pointedly at a male nurse who had started to creep towards the interior door. "Uh uh uh! Nobody leaves the party!" The grin got wider as the knife was pushed back snugly under the woman's chin. "Or I get to cut the cake."

Outside the hospital, the cacophony of sirens wailed to a halt. The wrecked doors and pick-up illuminated in pulses of blue as two police cars drew up directly behind them. "Oh shucks," said the Joker, pouting, "gatecrashers." He backed up against the interior doors as the first three uniformed officers burst through, followed closely by a pair of firemen.

"Jesus," gulped the first cop to spot the problem. "Oh Jesus…"

"So kind of you," smiled the Joker generously, "but I've decided not to be God this year, the tax is just murder."

"Stay calm, lady," called out the older officer of the three, "everything's gonna be fine. Sir, if you'd like to put the knife down and step away from the woman…"

"Certainly," came the amused response, "if you'll put your gun down and step away from that flower arrangement. Hydrangeas," he added in an aside to the nearest fireman, "they make me nervous."

"You want me to put my gun down? Sure." The cop nodded to his two associates. "But Benny and Tom here get to keep their guns, right?"

Benny and Tom exchanged a glance that said plainly they weren't sure who was more nuts, their boss or the loony in the purple suit.

"Of course," said the Joker agreeably. "Big strapping lads like that, it'd be a shame to part them from their guns. And I'm sure you want them to keep a good line of sight on lil' ol' me, yes?"

"That's right, fella," said the lead cop, bending slowly to lay his gun down in front of his feet. "See? I'm puttin' it down. Now you move away from the lady…"

"Watch me shimmy, watch me shake," grinned the Joker, extending his grip on Alison to arm's length and shuffling to the side. "Don't make any sudden moves now! I get very edgy at sudden moves."

"I'm moving real slow, I promise," said the cop, doing exactly that. The two junior marksmen kept their guns levelled very carefully at the madman as he sidestepped, away from Alison and closer to the huddled group of patients.

"I wasn't talking to you," huffed the Joker, "I was talking to the hydrangeas, they bother me." He let go his grip on Alison's shoulder at the exact moment that the butt of the cop's handgun slid a few inches forward across the floor. The woman, as if the removal of his grip acted as a catalyst, turned and bolted through the inner doors, fleeing deeper into the building despite the frenzied shouts of the firemen and the cops for her to do otherwise.

"Round and round she goes," mused the Joker, delighted. "Where she stops, nobody knows. Hey, this is fun." His good arm whipped out and snagged the shoulder of the nearest patient, an elderly man with a crutch, and the knife came back up with a gleam.

"Drop the knife!" yelled the cops, somewhat redundantly.

"Oh, I don't think so. How would I open the parcel without a knife? Here. Pass the parcel!" He gave the elderly patient a shove so that he stumbled towards the police and grabbed a teenage girl with a burn mark on her arm instead. "Maybe this is the one I get to unwrap, whaddya think, boys?"

"I think they should have shot you when they had the chance."

Batman stood, arms folded, in the ruined doorway. His shadowed eyes were fixed on the Joker, who grinned even wider in delight. The teenager, crushed against the smoke-stained purple jacket, began to cry in great hiccupping gulps.

"But then they don't know you like I do…"

The cowled figure stepped forward, boots crushing shards of glass from the pick-up's windscreen. The Joker's shoulders tensed, just slightly. "They don't know you, and why should they? Their world shouldn't contain creatures like you."

"There you are," purred the Joker, " and I thought you didn't love me anymore. I've been waiting for you, you know."

"I know you have," said Batman, softly. "I'm here now. Let's get this over with."

The madman snorted. "Killjoy."

He backed again towards the inner doors, which were still swinging gently from Alison's escape through them, and leant for one moment against them lightly, his green eyes gleaming brightly and a little blood beginning to seep from under the strapping on his broken arm. For that moment, the rictus grin wavered: the pain registered, and the white brow sprang out in sweat along furrows of expressed, very human exhaustion.

Batman took another small step forward, this time with his hand held out. "Joker…"

The Joker backed away. Slowly, very slowly, he switched hands so that he held the terrified girl and the knife in the same long white hand. Then he bent his sharp head, deliberately, and licked along the back of his filthy, bandaged hand with his tongue, cleaning away the rivulet of blood. Red stained his big teeth as he looked up again, grinning.

"I was gonna say," he whispered, just loud enough for Batman to hear, then as the cowled head tipped forward to catch the quiet words, he tipped his head back and crowed with laughter. "Let's play!"

The teenager, her face red and blotched with tears, was pushed forward hard into Batman's arms, and the doors clattered as the Joker turned and bolted through them.

Batman handed the sobbing girl to the closest fireman and turned his gaze on the lead cop, who was looking like a scolded schoolkid.

"Batman, I'm sorry, we -"

"You didn't know what to do. Don't be sorry."

The black cape flared out like wings as Batman strode past them all.

"That's my job."

A stunned moment passed as Gotham's defender vanished into the hospital corridors, broken only by the lead cop's startled exclamation as he realised his gun was no longer on the floor.

**Gotham General Hospital, 8.24 a.m. **_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

I know it's the beginning of the end when I hear the running footsteps again in the corridor: not running away from me this time but toward me, woman's footsteps in heels that sound broken. The sound rings in the halls above the distant sound of sirens, the irregular beat of someone running desperately, but not haphazardly.

And then the voice, calling out from the floor above by the sounds of it. So close, he sounds, he could be standing right above my head.

"Yoo-hoooo!" the Joker sings out, and all the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "Run, rabbit, run rabbit, run run run…"

Then the door of the coma ward is thrown open, and any hope I might have had left rushes away like floodwater down a storm drain.


	14. Chapter 14

**THROWAWAY CARD**

**Chapter 14**

**Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics. **

_Author's Note: I think if I rewrite this final chapter one more time my eyes may fall out! So - here it is._

The woman who runs into the room (and it is a woman, I can hear the heels even more clearly at this range) knows exactly where she's headed, and oh God, it's directly for me. But she doesn't see me. I see her thin legs, her feet in their broken shoes, as she leans over the child's bed, her breath gasping in her throat. She's been crying. The rawness of her emotion is clear as she leans over the pillows.

"It's all right darling. It's all right. Mummy's here. Mummy's here. Don't be frightened. Don't be frightened…."

Mrs Wright. Jesus, why's she still here? She must be thinking she can take her child to safety, but she can't. The kid's on full life support. If those tubes and wires come out she'll be dead in a very short while, unable to breathe on her own and with her little heart unable to keep rhythm.

"Don't be frightened," Mrs Wright whispers, her voice breaking as she struggles to comfort a child who probably can't even hear her. For a moment I remember what it was like when I was young and my mother picked me up after I fell from my bike. The feeling of safety in the arms of your mother is incomparable, and I would give anything to feel that safe right now.

Even if I live through this, I don't know if I'll ever feel safe again.

Mrs Wright breaks off with a choking sob as the Joker's voice sings out once more in the corridors, this time sounding as if he's right outside. "Honey," he croons, "I'm home."

Then he kicks the doors open too and I instinctively flatten myself against the wall further, trying to hide.

**Gotham General Hospital, Corridors, 8.25 a.m. **

"Honey, I'm ho-ooome!"

Batman made an immediate left at the next available intersection. The grey hospital corridors flicked past in his peripheral vision. _All look the same. Keep talking, Joker. _

As if in response, the madman's cheerful, invasive voice crooned out again and Batman growled inwardly as he paused for precious seconds to make sure of the direction it was coming from. "Oh baby…"

**Intensive Care Ward, 8.26 a.m. **

"Oh baby," sings the Joker, his throat sounding much improved from when I last examined it. "I love it when you look at me with those come-to-bed eyes. Shove the depressing sick sprog aside, sweet cheeks, let's bounce on the mattress."

I hear the mattress creak as Mrs Wright pushes herself up onto the bed. She must be practically lying on top of her child, trying to shield the helpless little body with her own. She says nothing. I can hear her breathing, ragged and harsh, and the echoes as the madman walks forward. Even his walk is theatrical, the rhythm of his steps carefully measured. One step, two step…he must be walking like a dancer, placing one foot carefully in front of the other in a balanced swagger. My hand cramps and I panic, flexing the fingers desperately, trying to stay silent even through the pain of muscle spasm.

"I love what you've done with the place," says the Joker, and as he speaks I can almost see his thin, chalk-white face turning assessingly from side to side. His voice bounces off the walls. "A bit of a fixer-upper…but hey, I understand. A single mom. Life can be tough." The tone has changed again. Now he's a solicitous social worker, genuinely concerned about the trials and tribulations of widows and their kids. Hell, he sounds so genuine I'd almost believe that voice myself if it was speaking to me through my front door.

He's drawing closer now, those graceful, measured steps sounding loud on the floor. Walking like a gunslinger, making an entrance, making a scene. If I lean down further I could probably catch a glimpse of those sooty Cuban heels: but I hardly dare breathe, let alone move.

The mattress above me creaks again. Then Mrs Wright's voice, tremulous, but filled with something I did not expect: cold fury, overwhelming her fear. "Don't hurt my baby. You bastard, you won't hurt my baby again."

There is a moment of silence. I can only imagine the expression on his face - the look of a cat who lifts his paw to find he has been bitten by the mouse.

Then he laughs. In the face of her defiance, where the poor woman must have screwed up every ounce of her strength, her emotion, to confront him: he laughs. Laughs as if it's the most wonderful, frivolous joke in the world.

"Oh," he gasps after a moment, "oh, my dear. You are _priceless_."

And that's when I get it, the whole reason this one skinny madman inspires so much terror in both me and the rest of the sane world: why his guards are wired up like Animal Patrol and why he's kept on his own, isolated from everyone. All our striving, all our hopes and fears and pains, all of the things that make us who we are and the things that give our lives meaning - our children, our families - to the Joker none of that means anything.

It's as if by his careless ridicule alone he has the power to steal all your greatest loves and certainties away. I certainly never thought I'd have doubts about treating a patient, hell, I'd've treated Charles Manson if he was in pain and in my hospital. But a few scant hours with the Joker and I want to take that broken arm and twist it until he can't laugh that awful laugh anymore.

Except I don't have the nerve: and he's probably armed.

The Cuban heels click on the floor again, one step. I struggle not to give myself away, my hand cramping again viciously, the pain biting like a rat into my palm. I try to focus on something else to distract me, looking towards the next bed along and its accompanying med trolley. It's Mrs Bolland's trolley, the lady who didn't quite come out of her hip replacement operation quite as well as we'd hoped. There are various items on the trolley: towels, a kidney bowl, a line of spare IV tubing, a bag of saline drip - and a filled syringe.

The orderly making his rounds must have been surprised by the alarms in the middle of seeing to Mrs Bolland. She's not like the other coma patients, Mrs Bolland - hers is an induced state, keeping her fairly heavily sedated while her shattered pelvis tries to heal. Wouldn't normally be necessary, but Mrs Bolland is a good few sandwiches short of a picnic and has re-broken her fragile, octogenarian pelvis several times because she refuses to lie still and rest naturally.

Her family aren't best pleased about it, but to be quite honest I'm thanking God for Mrs Bolland right now, because I just know that hypo is chockfull of enough sedative to knock out a horse.

The pain in my hand is a fading memory. Now I have a plan. All I can hope for now is the courage to do what I know I must…

**Gotham General Hospital, Corridors, 8.26am**

The Joker's happy hollering had fallen quiet. Batman held his breath and stood statue-still for a tense second.

_He must be close. Must be. But no-one wants to hear cries of pain or sounds of distress in a hospital. The doors and walls are good at muffling sound. _

He was listening so hard, the sudden gunshot was almost deafening, and his muscles tightened as the bullet clipped the edge of his cape. Flattened against the wall, he counted tersely to five in his head, then said:

"It's me. Why did you take the gun?"

There were three rapid steps from around the corner, then Catwoman's masked face appeared, her lips curled in a very unflattering scowl. The cop's gun was clasped loosely in her sleek black glove. "Damn," she muttered, a small, teasing smile tweaking the edges of her pout. "Missed you."

Batman looked impassively across at her.

"Were you going to shoot him?"

"No," said Selina, sarcasm lacing her tone liberally. "I was going to give him a bullet as an early Christmas present. To make sure he didn't lose it, I was going to give it to him in his forehead. Hey!"

This last exclamation was due to Batman's heavy gauntlet reaching out and snatching the gun by the barrel. Catwoman put her hands on her hips, infuriated.

"Give that back."

Batman didn't respond. His head tilted up, listening: then he shoved past Catwoman and broke into a run once more, cape billowing out behind him. The gun he threw into a hamper of laundry as he passed. "Hey!" Catwoman shouted. "Hey!"

But then she heard it too: a woman, screaming as if her very soul was being ripped from her body through her throat. Selina turned too, then, and ran after Batman, her boots hammering the floor.

**Intensive Care Ward, 8.27am**

I finally persuade my terrified, locked muscles to move. Only very slightly, and very, very slowly, but we're moving and that's the important part. My blood pounds through my head, and my face feels unnaturally hot. Sweat trickles into the corner of one of my eyes and I nearly bite my own tongue off as a gunshot rings out somewhere close, very close.

"Ding-dong! Are visiting hours over?" the Joker asks sadly, and I can tell by the echoes of his harsh voice that he is right at the bedside, looking up at the big, executive clock on the far wall. "Aww, that's too bad. Lady, I'm afraid you're going to have to leave."

A barely human howl from Mrs Wright as the Joker obviously lashes out or makes some threatening move that I can't see from this angle. Words eventually emerge. "Get away! Get away from me! You won't hurt my little girl, not again, not again!"

"Tchah," sniffs the Joker, obviously to himself, "poor woman's deranged. Quite coo-coo. Sad really. Honey - "

Mrs Wright yelps again as he moves. At a guess I'd say he was leaning close enough to her now to reach out and pat her pale cheek. "Honey. I've never seen you or your charity case Cabbage Patch kid before today. And I certainly haven't hurt her." I can hear the awful grin in his voice as it spreads across his face, pulling that wide gash of mouth up at the corners. "Not a curly golden hair on your angel-baby's ickle tube-infested head. Now don't cloud the issue, please, I'm busy." A pause. "Now what was I busy doing again? Dear, dear, mind like a sieve - an exceptionally brilliant sieve, obviously - but what was it, what was it…"

He's playing. I wish I could see exactly where he's standing so I'd know better if I had a clear shot at getting hold of that syringe.

"Ooh yes," the Joker says suddenly, and I can imagine one of those thin white fingers stabbing triumphantly at the air. "That was it. I was getting hold of you so that when Bats gets here I get to see that marvellous look of disgust on his pvc-covered puss." The bed creaks alarmingly and Mrs Wright chokes out a cry. The IV stand a few inches away from me rocks and slides in toward the bed, pulled by the feed. I'm guessing she's lifting her child up, cradling her, doing all she can to get between her baby and the monster.

"Still holding on to Momma's apron strings?" the Joker says in a sing-song mocking tone, and I realise with a jolt of shock that he's actually addressing the unconscious child now. Jeez, this guy's unbelievable."Oh, Sleeping Beauty. It's about time you realised your Prince ain't never gonna come for you."

A very tense pause, then Mrs Wright shrieks, a banshee wail.

"Don't you touch her! Don't you dare touch her!"

"And you," the Joker sighs, his attention drawn back to Mrs Wright. "You need to learn that children need their independence, cupcake. You have to let go. You have to…"

Mrs Wright screams so loudly at this point that I think I've missed the end of the Joker's sentence, and adrenalin burns through my veins. I have to do something. I can't let him hurt her.

"…cut the umbilical," the Joker concludes, and I can hear the smile. "Nurse? Scalpel."

To a soundtrack of the woman's screams I lurch upright from my hiding place and dive for the syringe. I have time for one glimpse, and one glimpse only, of the scene on the bed. Mrs Wright has flung herself at the Joker, her pale arms grabbing and scratching for his face, his hair, anything to try and hurt him. The madman himself is hunched over the bed like a long-limbed spider, and my heart lurches as I see the gleam of the scalpel in his good hand. The long, clever fingers are at work doing something, but through the flurry of the mother's hair and her frenzied blows, I can't see what.

I have eyes only for the sharp resting on its metal tray. I'm aware as I reach out that I have to be very careful with this: I'm only going to get one try, and if I fumble it I'm a dead man. Mrs Wright's screams are hoarse now. A dull thumping rings in my ears, and I only belatedly realise that it is the sound of the desperate woman's fists as they beat a frantic tattoo on the madman's arms and chest.

I turn, scrambling to gain my balance and try to collect myself for the thing I have to do. I decide to aim for the shoulder of the bad arm, if I can. Oh God, oh god. The muscles in my hand cramp with renewed terror. But I've got the sharp, and with that I've got a chance to -

Something unbelievably hard that goes _clang _with a metal finality hits with cold force right across my nose as I turn. Through the almost immediate blurring of pain and my eyes watering, I see the Joker pulling back, and then the same cold, hard thing hits me again, with more force.

"Doctor Kelly," says the Joker, sounding delighted. "Is it time for my shots again already? But I only had my tetanus last week."

I can't think straight any more. All my thoughts are arriving in my mind broken, in the wrong order, fuzzy and faraway like dreams of childhood. The smell of disinfectant is suddenly overwhelming: I'm drowning in it, sickening on it. I open my mouth to try and speak and taste blood like liquid metal on my tongue.

Oh God. Forgive me. I failed.

_end of diary extract_

Batman shouldered his way in through the doors in time to see Doctor Kelly slumping to the floor at the Joker's feet, his face bloodied. The madman still had his good arm raised: in his fingers was gripped a large, stainless steel kidney bowl, which he had obviously just finished beating the doctor about the head with. A screaming woman was clinging to his broken arm and thrashing out at him with all her strength. The Joker looked a wreck. Blood dripped out steadily from under the strapping on his arm, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild above the manic expanse of grin. He had a short, shiny scalpel clutched in the fingers of his bad arm.

"Oh, do stop henpecking, dear," he said with a world-weary roll of those jaundiced eyes. His good arm swung back and grabbed the woman by her hair, dragging her head back painfully. Still she fought, kicking at him, clawing like a captive wildcat, as he gradually forced her to her knees at his side. "We have company. I hate it when we have to have our little tiffs in front of guests."

Batman's eyes flicked around the room as he advanced slowly, taking in every little detail. The uniform rows of beds with their silent occupants. The syringe lying a few inches in front of Kelly's outflung hand. The IV stand leaning drunkenly over the bed where the little girl lay. The weeping, hysterical woman hanging cowed by her hair from the Joker's hand. And finally, the Joker himself, chest heaving with exertion, blood dappling his clothes and the shining floor.

"You must be in a lot of pain," said Batman to the madman, almost absently, and took a few more steps forward.

"Oh please," snorted the Joker. "I'm starting to think you're stalking me. I may have to get a restraining order issued."

"You'd never do that," said Batman, quietly. He was getting ever closer, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Joker glance around for exits uneasily.

_However arrogant he is, however crazy he's gotten over the years - something in him, some purely animal instinct is telling him he's at the end of his rope. He's injured, weakening, and cornered. _

_He has never been more dangerous than he is at this moment. _

Batman turned his attention to the woman at the Joker's side. "Mrs Wright. Alison."

The weeping, red-rimmed eyes turned to stare at him. She had stopped fighting and her expression was empty. Batman felt something twist in his gut as he met her eyes. He recognised that look from the mirrors of his youth: the face of someone who has lost too much to want to fight for life.

All at once his fury at the Joker returned, doubled and reinforced by the impotent fury of his grieving child self at the murder of his parents. _Careful. _"You don't know who she is, do you?" he said, coldly, stopping a careful distance away from the madman. Too close could result in disaster, but equally too far away could be just as hazardous. The Joker frowned, red lips pursed thoughtfully as if pondering a particularly engrossing math problem. He seemed utterly unaware that a fine trembling had started up in his limbs, the sure sign of muscles on the verge of collapse.

"Hmm. Lemme see."

He tilted down briefly and pulled hard on the woman's hair to yank her face up to look. He grimaced. "Ugh. No. I'd remember crows feet like that."

"Sam Wright. Tobacconist. Had a shop in Lower Hart Boulevard." Batman noted the shift of the scalpel in the Joker's bloodied fingers and took another half step forward. Years of experience had taught him to sense the crisis points in confrontations, and this one was rocketing, out of control, towards an explosion. The Joker's weakness was that he loved to hear the sound of his own voice, and he was as curious as a cat. _Keep his interest, keep him talking, and I have a chance. This is risky, but unless I can wrong-foot him, put him off -balance, his arrogance will keep him going far longer I'd like. I know something he doesn't. Time to use that knowledge._

"You killed him."

There was a choking sob from the woman. Batman, pushing her distress from the forefront of his mind so that it didn't distract him, pressed on before the Joker could lose interest. "Three years ago. You'd been on the loose for nearly a month. You went into the shop, attracted by the window display. Mr Wright had a weak heart. You intimidated him so much that he died of fright over his counter. No-one suspected you'd had anything to do with it. Heart attacks happen." In his mind, Batman could see the little scene, the terrified man cowering back from the skinny lunatic with two heavy, masked henchmen at his side, his plump back shoved up hard against the bottles and packets behind the counter."Six days later, you blew up the County Square Mall. Mr Wright's six-year-old daughter was in the creche at the time." The woman's sobs were relentless now. "Josephine Wright. She's been in a coma for three years." Batman took a final step forward and played his riskiest card. "You said you wanted your revenge for what was done to you, Joker? So did Alison Wright. And she has had it."

The Joker was standing very still now, and that in itself was frightening. "Look at yourself," said Batman, harshly. "You're beaten, and she has done it all."

_There it is. Crisis point. But which way will he go? Explosion or slow burn?_

"Blah blah blah," said the Joker, his voice sounding cracked again, and affectedly bored. His white fingers twitched as he hauled Alison Wright to her feet at his side, and his arm was trembling as he held her inches from his face. "Too bad, sweetheart. You and I could have been great together. If only you'd learn to stop the waterworks and smile once in a while." He grinned, cheek muscles flinching away from the widening mouth. "But then you went and spoiled it all by doing something stupid like sedaaating meeee…" he sang, and continued to hum as his bad arm, dripping blood lazily and with the scalpel shining in it, came up and he began to slice into the woman's face.

_Explosion. _Batman was already moving: when the loud report of the gunshot clamoured in his ears his fist had already connected with the Joker's jaw. The bullet tore through his billowing cape and ripped through the Joker's suit at the shoulder as the madman staggered backwards from the force of the blow. Batman pounced, arm pulling back for a follow-up punch and driving his knee forward to pin the Joker across the chest as the madman lay sprawled on the floor: but it wasn't necessary. Weak, wounded and at the end of his strength, the Joker lay felled by the single blow, his jaw already beginning to swell and bruise and eyes rolled senselessly back.

Batman, hunched like a shadow on the floor over him, turned his head to look over one shoulder. "Your aim is terrible."

Catwoman, leaning in the doorway with the gun hanging carelessly from one hand, gave him a delicate shrug. "Why are you complaining? I didn't hit you, did I?"

"And your timing is worse."

Batman carefully turned the Joker over so that he was lying face down and then snapped restraints round his wrists. _Never underestimate him, even when he's unconscious. Odd. When he's conscious his very vitality distracts from the fragility of him. It's like glamour, in the old sense, a magic that conceals who you really are. A mask. A flim-flam. Now he just looks...very human and very sick._

He turned, rising, and walked over to the bed where Mrs Wright was huddled on top of the bedclothes. She was rocking backwards and forwards with her child in her arms, crying with dry eyes now as if there were no more tears to shed.

"Alison," Batman said softly. She didn't look up until the heavy black gauntlet touched lightly, so lightly to her back, just below the neck.

"He didn't even know," she cried. "He didn't even know…"

Batman looked down at the slumped figure of Josephine Wright as her mother sobbed and rocked her. All the tubes and wires that should have connected the little girl to the machines that were keeping her alive had been neatly severed by a scalpel.

_Superhero…_

Batman stayed crouched at Alison's side like a shadowas the ward was invaded by police.

_I failed…_

**Private Ward C-1, Gotham General Hospital**

**Two days later**

"Leslie."

The voice brought Leslie Thompkins out of her light sleep, and she turned her head to see the figure sat at her bedside.

"Well," she said, smiling. "I might have known you'd come and see me eventually. Too busy to visit an old lady, I suppose? Although I gather I do have Mr Wayne to thank for this move to a private room."

The mouth under the line of the cowl did not even twitch.

"Bruce," said Leslie, lowering her voice. "What's wrong?"

"I failed."

The tone was matter-of-fact, but with an underlying layer of complete despair that tore at Leslie's heart.

"You got him," she said, reaching out with her unburnt hand to touch the black-clad arm. "I saw it on the TV yesterday. And by the looks of him you got him good. I've never seen a man look so ill and beaten, and believe me I've seen a lot in my time at the clinic."

"That wasn't me."

A pause. "That was the work of an ordinary woman. The Joker killed her husband, frightened him to death in his own shop, and she was the only one who suspected the truth. Barely a day after her husband was buried, the Joker blows up a mall and her daughter is caught in the blast, hospitalised and on full life support.

"It then takes her the best part of three years to complete her plan. She sells all she has, her husband's business, her house in the good part of town, and she goes to live in a low-rent apartment building, where she eventually manages to track down a contact for a hitman through her neighbours. It takes half of all her money just to hire him and provide him with the equipment he needs to break the Joker out of Arkham and keep him subdued for a while.

"The other half of the money goes on explosives. She wants him dead, but she also wants to make sure that the police and all of Gotham believe that his own cowardly actions caused his demise. And what does the Joker do best? Chaos, and murder, on an extravagant scale. If she'd simply had him taken out in Arkham, all hell would have broken loose to find his killer, both within the police and in Gotham's underworld, too. This way she thought she was ensuring a clean end to it all, a justifiable death for the man who stole her life and the lives of so many others. And if he had burnt to death as she intended, he would have suffered greatly as he died."

Batman realised he had the sheets of Leslie's bed gripped in his hands convulsively: he let them go.

"It's horrible, but it's ingenious," said Leslie, slowly. "Poor woman."

"She thought about what she was going to do," Batman went on, softly. "She thought about it for a long time. She had nothing else to think about once her family was gone. But she didn't think about it enough. The targets she chose to detonate were empty factories, shipping depots - minimum casualties, or so she thought." He looked into the doctor's eyes. "But she didn't anticipate that the blasts might take out not only the building they were triggered in but the buildings on each side as well. "

"The carpet cutting factory was next to my clinic," Leslie sighed.

"She wasn't an expert on explosives." Batman paused and bit back on the immediate thought: _like the Joker. _"She didn't really appreciate the full power of the bombs she had set." _I wonder what she thought when she realised she had killed? Did she see it on the news? Did she care? I saw her at the hospital visiting her child directly after the explosions. Her enemy was lying wounded in the same hospital, but she didn't know…_

The doctor reached up with one bandaged hand to run her fingers through her hair: then she asked, gently: "How many died? They won't tell me. They keep telling me to rest, not to worry. How can I not worry? There were _children_ in my clinic, Bruce…"

The eyes under the cowl held her gaze steadily. "Seventeen died, in all.A night watchmen. A fireman crushed under debris at the Amway warehouse. Two night shift workers at the cold storage building on Terrace Hill, killed instantly when the bomb went off right under their rec room." He paused. "The rest were from your clinic."

Leslie closed her eyes and her face, grey with fatigue, creased in tired lines across her forehead. "Thankyou," she breathed quietly after a moment, "I knew you of all people wouldn't lie to me."

"I never could."

The doctor opened her eyes again and looked at Batman seriously. "I want the names," she said, with as much force as she could manage. "It's my duty. Those people were in my care and I will not completely abandon my responsibility simply because they are dead."

The cowl nodded. "I understand. I'll make sure you get them." He paused. "The child died. Couldn't be revived."

Leslie reached out again and traced the flat of her palm down the side of Batman's face.

"You haven't failed," she said. "Please don't beat yourself up over this. There was no way you could have anticipated it. She was an ordinary woman. It's not as if she had a pattern you could predict or an agenda you could have guessed." Batman looked away at that moment, and Leslie's final words to him caused him to clench his teeth.

"She's not one of your super villains, Bruce."

**Wayne Manor, evening.**

"I'm not staying, Alfred."

The butler, who was stood calmly in the study with a silver tray balanced on one hand, did not make any display of surprise. Bruce removed Batman's cape and poked a finger through each of the two bullet holes with a quizzical expression. _Hmm. Forgot about these. _

"Shall I get my sewing kit, sir?" said Alfred, a flicker of disapproval crossing his face.

Bruce nodded, dropping the cape on the desk where it lay like a pool of shadow. "Please."

_With Bruce Wayne's clothes I would never even think of mending them. Bruce Wayne would throw an imperfect suit away and buy ten new ones. But these clothes…_

He turned away from Alfred, who was still patiently holding the tray of sandwiches. "I'm going to change into a new suit before I go out again."

"Evening dress, sir?" said Alfred, without a hint of sarcasm. "A society function perhaps?"

"No." In his mind he was already there, walking the corridors, feeling the claustrophobia and hate that permeated the very walls. "Social call."

**Arkham Asylum. Night. **

_Snap. Snap. Snap._

The cheap, plastic-coated cards made a repetitive sound as they were dealt endlessly onto the table.

"How does it feel?"

_Snap. Snap. Snap. _The Joker never paused. His wrists were shackled in carefully padded steel restraints that gleamed cheerfully in the light. Batman watched him intently from the shadows by the door.

The rogue influenza strain had proved vulnerable to a veritable cocktail of antibiotics, so the Arkham doctors had told him. The Joker's own ridiculously robust immune system had already done the greater part in killing off the virus even before he had been admitted, senseless and bleeding, to the mental hospital's infirmary wing. Now clad in familiar bright orange shirt and slacks, with the soft matching canvas shoes on his feet, the madman looked almost comfortable, wearing his fading bruises and band-aids like trophies.

"How does it feel?" Batman repeated, leaning forward just slightly so his cape and shoulders were carved out of their shadowed darkness by the spill of light from above the table.

"I won't feel like chatting," said the Joker levelly, "until I've dealt you in." He picked up the cards already scattered before him on the table, shuffled them with a flourish. Batman watched impassively as the Joker dealt out six cards, then another eleven, one after the other. The madman's white hand extended with a rattle of cuff. "Pick one."

Batman never moved. The Joker held the pack extended for a few seconds, then grinned and drew the top card himself, holding it out for inspection.

_Queen of Hearts._

"How does it feel, Batsy, baby," murmured the Joker, tapping one long finger against the table. The rest of the arm was bound up tightly in surgical tape and bandages. "What a question. What a silly, silly question."

Batman recognised he was being baited, and waited patiently as the Joker drew another card, holding this one close to his chest and peering out from behind it at his visitor.

"She got the better of you," said Batman quietly, after a while. "How does it feel?"

The white fingers holding the card fluttered once in a dismissive gesture. "How keen you are to put me down, old friend," said the Joker with a sad little smile. "I think you should be asking yourself first. She got the better of _you_, really, didn't she?"

He laid the card he was holding down across the queen on the table. It was, of course, a joker.

"I hear she's gone down hard," the Joker went on, one long finger tapping each of the cards he had previously dealt as he walked his hand across the table. Batman found himself counting in his head at each tap.

…_one, two, three, four, five…_

"I hear you were the one who handed her over to the cops as soon as you'd dragged her away from clinging to her poor wee infant's cold, dead body…"

Batman refused to show any

…_thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…seventeen. _

"Seventeen people, Bats." The Joker leant forward over the table, his thin face alight with a sudden enthusiasm. "I could almost be impressed if it wasn't all so terribly passe. One fat cancer-jockey pops his clogs at the mere sight of my incredibly gorgeous face, and three years later seventeen people are dead and there are eleven lovely barbecues heating up Gotham City." He picked up the queen and the joker and pressed them together. "A credit to my genius. A disciple learning at my feet. A priestess at the shrine of the eternal jest."

_He's taking credit for this…this travesty?_

The thought passed through Batman's mind in a swift silver flicker, followed instantly by the slower, more world-weary thought: _of course he is. _

"I would rather have had you charged with those seventeen deaths," he said, voice still level and giving nothing away. "But that's not the way it works. You were the victim in this situation, not the villain. She killed them. She will pay the price. That's justice."

"Oh, but you can't deny that it was my touch of class that gave this whole sordid little episode of _Days of Our Lives _meaning," said the Joker happily, sweeping the seventeen dealt cards into a pile and putting down the joker card on top of them. The queen he picked up and toyed with absently.

"I can and I will." _Even though I know you are, in some small way, correct, I can't agree with you on this. That way madness lies._

"Pfft," scoffed the Joker, and with a single gesture he flicked the queen of hearts from his hand and the card flew from the table, landing in the shadows, lost to view. "No-one ordinary could have put a scheme as much fun as this together without a little help from lil' ol' me." The grin widened as he leant forward again with a clank from the cuffs. An answering clank came from under the table as he kicked his feet in glee. "Niezsche, baby. If you stare too long into the abyss, the abyss stares also into you? Course, I'm biased - the abyss couldn't help staring at me if it tried, God love it. Sweet thing."

Batman was silent for a long moment in the darkness.

_Isn't that what worries me, really, deep down? She was an ordinary woman, who when her life was touched by the supervillain, the fantastical, the terrible nightmare, became part of his madness, part of his world. _

_In trying to fight against him and all he stands for, hasn't she become him?_

_Niezsche, baby…Those who fight with monsters…is it that easy?_

Batman watched the Joker, who was picking his teeth with flagrant unconcern. He had slipped his wrists from the handcuffs without apparently really noticing he'd done it.

"Bats?"

No reply.

"Hello?"

The Joker spoke up into the silence, but the silence was empty, all-consuming. Alone once more in his cell, the madman smiled and winked at the CCTV camera. "I'm ready for my close-up. Be harsh. Be brutal." One white finger wagged sternly at the stolid lens. "But most of all, be sure you get my best side."

The grey corridors echoed with his laughter, and his neighbouring inmates sobbed and railed and beat their fists against the walls, willing it to stop. In the corner on the floor, the discarded card lay glimmering in the darkness until the lights went out all over Arkham that night.

**Gotham General Hospital, night**

_Extract from the diary of Ari Kelly, 32 years old, doctor of this parish:_

I guess I'm a hero, although I don't really feel much of one. The girl who works on reception gave me a kiss this morning when I went back on full shift for the first time since the hospital went to hell that night with the Joker. Funny, I never even really noticed her before, but today she called me over, kissed my cheek and said "I just wanted to say thank you."

Turns out her grandma is in the same ward as Mrs Bolland, in the next bed no less. To her I'm the guy who tried to bring the Joker down. I had my photo in the papers and everything, right next to the stock photo of Batman they always drag out on these occasions.

No-one seems to mind that I didn't actually manage it. No-one seems to care that I didn't save anybody. They don't even seem to have realised that I'm not a superhero, I'm just an ordinary guy who almost got his ass kicked in the worst way imaginable.

I wonder if this is how Batman feels all the time?

He must have been an ordinary guy, once. I don't see him being squeezed into the world by his momma complete with little cowl and cape. Long ago, perhaps, but still he must once have been just a guy who saw some crap going down and decided to take a stand, even if he was shit-scared about what would happen if he failed.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about this, and as I go out the firedoors to grab a smoke in my break, it hits me: just being in the presence of extremes, good or bad, can change you for life. Batman came into this whole mess with his eyes wide open and he took a chance on me. He trusted me to do what I knew was right: treat the Joker, even though he is a killer, and not falter when I had the means to try and help.

Even though I was shit-scared about dying when I failed. Hey, who knew the crazy would turn out to be innocent?

Damn, this cigarette packet feels empty. Lousy orderlies. They keep sneaking my smokes when I leave my coat hanging up in the scrubs room…

I tip up the empty packet and a small card, no bigger than a business card, falls out into my hand. It's expensive card with a fine grain, and printed on one side with a single line of black text. I run my finger over its surface and realise it's embossed, with the curving shape of a bat, and then I read the words.

_Try giving these up._

And I laugh, the first time I've laughed properly in what feels like months. Hell. If I can survive the Joker, cold turkey should be a breeze.

"Well, what d'you know!" I grin into the darkness as it starts to drizzle with rain. "I'm feeling heroic!"

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End file.
